The Wolfstone Curse Page 2

  Across the hall. More cobwebs. Her foot scratched on a splintered floorboard, but she scarcely noticed.

  The night air was fresh and chill, and she gulped it in hungrily. She stood for a moment, looking round, getting her bearings. Which way was the village?

  She kept to the shadows, close to the walls of the house. Past the broken and boarded windows, along the cracked and uneven paving.

  A single light shone out from a high window, in a tower at the end of the house. Her room. She must have run all the way round to the back of the house. But that was good – she knew where she was. She could remember the view. She glanced up at the light.

  There was a dark shape in the window, silhouetted against the light. Eyes stared glassily down, and for a moment she thought Mr Edward had somehow clambered up to watch.

  The shape forced its way lithely through the window. Forelegs scrabbled at the edge of the sill. Fur bristled and ruffled in the breeze as the blood-red eyes sought her out. Then it leaped – out from the window, into space, legs still scrabbling in the air. The night split by its howl.

  It landed on all fours, snarling and snapping. The animal’s broken ear was a mass of matted fur and tissue that scarred one side of its head. The eyes caught the moonlight so they seemed to flash and glow. It took only a moment to gather itself, then the creature was running – bounding towards her.

  She turned, her long white dress billowing out as she moved. Her feet pawed urgently at the grass as she ran from the house. The blood was pounding in her ears, like the thump of the predator’s feet behind her. Ragged gasps of breath, the wind in her hair, her dress pressed tight round her as she ran.

  If she could reach the hedge, maybe she could lose him in the maze. How well did her pursuer know it? She’d played there as a child – laughing and hiding from her brother. Racing him to the centre to find the statue. If she could find it now, would she be safe?

  She didn’t dare look back. She could feel the animal’s hot breath on her neck. Could smell the musky scent of its body – the same smell that accompanied the man into the room when he brought her food. When he brought her milk and raw steak.

  A wall of green. The moonlight filtered through, casting shadows like the pattern on her wallpaper. She ran, turned a corner, pushed through a narrow gap between hedges.

  Ahead of her, eyes glinted in the night. She doubled back.

  Close beside her, jaws snapped shut. A snarl of anger sent her off down another green corridor.

  The next opening – even overgrown, even after all these years, she recognised it. She forced herself through the brambles and bindweed. Barely noticed the tiny purple flowers opening as the moonlight touched them. Something whipped at her face, like the cobwebs in the house. She cried out, wiping the back of her hand across. It came away smudged with blood.

  She stared at the crimson stain for a moment, before licking it away. Like an animal licking its wounds. She felt the blood welling up again, and running down her cheek like tears.

  But she was here now, she’d made it. She’d escaped from the room, from the man with the ragged ear. She’d made it to the centre of the maze, just like in her childhood games. Safe.

  She let out a long, sighing breath. The wind riffled through her hair. She could feel the night through her flimsy dress. Her breathing settled into a gentle rhythm.

  And now could she hear its echo. The low, rasping breath of the animal that was hunting her. That had found her.

  Only now did she realise there was no other way out of the centre of the maze. She was just as trapped here as she was in her room.

  She turned, just as the creature leaped out of the darkness – paws out and claws extended. Its snarling face filled the night as the wolf slammed into her, knocking her down. Its jaws opened impossibly wide, and its roar of triumph echoed round the green prison.

  Welcome to Wolfstone

  The Historic Village at the Heart of

  the ‘Wolfstone Park’ Luxury Development.

  Historic Wolfstone lies in the midst of the Cotswolds. It is of course best known for the famous Wolfstone Circle – a set of standing stones close to the village. Wolfstone Manor is also of historical interest, although it has been neglected in recent years.

  Away from main roads and railway lines, the village itself has generally been in decline since medieval times, when it served the local farming community.

  But with the extensive Wolfstone Park development now well under construction by Forrest Homes, the village will be reborn as the prestige rural location for people working as far afield as Cheltenham and Evesham.

  Wolfstone Park is being built on part of the ancient Wolfstone Manor Estate, saturated in local history and tradition. It will provide three, four and five-bedroom homes of distinction.

  Call Trisha at Forrest Domestic Estates for an executive brochure and price list, and ask for estimated completion dates. Part exchange available.

  The Red Fleece

  The Red Fleece is a seventeenth-century coaching inn, fully restored and oozing with period ambience. It is a favourite of visitors to the area, providing excellent bed and breakfast.

  The bar is well stocked with a variety of real ales, including Hook Norton, Theakstons, and the locally brewed Claw-Toe.

  As well as bar snacks, the fully licensed restaurant offers an à la carte menu of locally sourced food, including the Fleece’s signature dish: Huntsman’s Pie.

  A shadow stalked the Range Rover. Peter saw it through the window as he glanced up from the leaflet. A glimpse, no more. Maybe it was the shadow of the vehicle itself – thrown across the edge of the wood beside the road, broken up by the trees and dancing up the slight incline.

  Just a glimpse. When Peter turned to look properly, there was nothing but the patchy sunlight and the irregular shade under the trees. He put the leaflet back in the side pocket of the door.

  “If I read for too long, I feel sick,” he said, still looking out of the window.

  “It’s not that bad, surely,” his dad said.

  “No, I don’t mean the leaflet. If I read anything…”

  Peter’s voice tailed off as he realised his dad was smiling. Professor Crichton glanced quickly at Peter before returning his attention to the driving.

  They were on narrow country lanes now, the main roads far behind them. They emerged from the woodland, and the view suggested they had hardly climbed at all. At least the rain had stopped. The late afternoon sun was struggling unenthusiastically to escape from behind the clouds, bathing the rural landscape with pale yellow light.

  Peter resisted the temptation to ask if they were nearly there yet. Instead, he said, “So what’s it mean when it says the place has been ‘in decline since medieval times’?”

  “Oh they’re exaggerating. ‘In decline’ is a very emotive phrase, and I seriously doubt if there’s any real evidence for that.”

  It was a historian’s answer. Or maybe an archaeologist’s. Dad was both.

  “You said there’s loads going on,” Peter reminded him. “You said I wouldn’t get bored.”

  “Did I?” The Professor seemed to be concentrating more than ever on the road now.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Well, it’s up to you whether you get bored, really, isn’t it? You can help out on the dig. Lots going on there.”

  “You’ve got Mike and Abby for that,” Peter pointed out.

  “Could always use an extra hand.”

  Peter sighed. “If I don’t like it,” he said. “If I do get bored. If there really is nothing to do – can I go home?”

  “You can do what you want. You’re old enough. Off to university and everything. Course you can. But you’ll get bored at home on your own and Mum’s off lecturing for another month in America. I’m off digging up ancient stone circles, so ask yourself what your best option is.” It was clear what Professor Matthew Crichton considered the best choice.

  They were staying at the Red Fleece pub. It was built
from Cotswold stone, weathered and grey. The window frames were painted black, so the only variation in tone came from the sign swinging gently above the door

  It showed a sheep’s skin. At least, Peter thought it did. Looking closer, he saw that the skin was draped over another animal – a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The wolf’s eyes shone from beneath the sheep’s dead head. Although the pub was called the Red Fleece, mercifully the fleece on the sign was a dirty, flaking white.

  “I bet there’s some local story,” his dad said, following Peter’s gaze. “Come on – give me a hand with the bags.”

  Peter followed the professor round to the back of the Range Rover. He glanced up at movement from a window on the upper floor of the pub. The light was reflecting off it, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought someone was there, watching.

  The door from the car park gave a choice of Lounge Bar and Restaurant one way, and Reception the other. Reception turned out to be little more than a hatch in the wall. There was an old-fashioned brass bell on the narrow counter, which the professor rang.

  “You must be Professor Crichton,” the woman said when she arrived at the other side of the hatch.

  “I suppose I must,” Crichton agreed. “This is Peter.”

  “Hello.”

  The woman seemed friendly enough. She was about the same age as Peter’s mum – mid-forties. She looked older because she was wearing clothes that even Peter could see were out of date as well as old. A dark cardigan over a patterned blouse and a long black skirt. Her hair was fair, but streaked with white. She had a round face, with smiling eyes. A large silver locket dangled above the counter as she leaned forward.

  “Sorry, I was pulling a pint for Dave Bennett. If he wants anything else, Mr Seymour can sort it out. Let me get the register.”

  Several metal bracelets jangled as she lifted the large book onto the counter. Every one of her fingers had at least one ring – most of them silver.

  “If you could just sign in for me? And I’ll need your car registration number. Then I’ll show you to your rooms. Carys can help with your bags.” She leaned across and rang the bell again. Several times. “I’m Faye Seymour,” she went on without pause. “I think we spoke on the phone. But just call me Faye. And shout if you need anything.”

  “We can manage our bags. We’ve not got much,” Crichton assured Mrs Seymour as she attacked the bell again.

  “Could you? I’m so sorry, she’s usually pretty good. But you know what teenagers are like.”

  Carys guessed it was Professor Crichton and his son. She heard the Range Rover, and saw them from her window as they got their bags out of the back of the vehicle. The boy glanced up at the window, and instinctively Carys took a step backwards. Silly – he probably couldn’t see her anyway. And so what if he did? The boy was older than Carys had expected – about the same age as she was. But he obviously wasn’t trapped at home like she was. Well, maybe ‘trapped’ was a bit strong, but there was no way she could leave Mum to cope on her own.

  Carys heard the bell from her room. She’d been in the bar all through lunchtime, and this was the first chance she’d had for any time to herself. Not that serving at lunchtime was hard work, unless there was a coach party in on their way round the Cotswolds or en route to Cheltenham.

  Besides, the boy and his dad didn’t need her help. She’d seen them carry their bags across the car park, so they could manage a few stairs. Then again, it would be an excuse to meet the boy. She hadn’t really mixed with many people her own age since finishing school. But what would they talk about? What could they have in common? He looked so confident and at ease, talking to his father.

  So why would he want to talk to Carys – poor girl, stuck working in her mum’s pub in the middle of nowhere? She flopped down on her bed and stared up at the comforting blankness of the ceiling.

  They agreed to meet down in the bar after they’d unpacked. It didn’t take Peter long. There was no point in getting to the bar before Dad, so Peter fired his laptop up to check Facebook. But although there was a wi-fi connection, he needed a password.

  So he checked on his phone instead, which took for ever as the signal was almost non-existent, and because it always took an age. “God, this place is a dump,” he muttered. He reckoned he’d probably be heading home in a couple of days.

  His phone finally got its act together and Peter updated his status: “Peter Crichton is bored in the Cotswolds.” The signal disappeared completely before he could send it.

  Their rooms were on the same floor but off different sides of the main staircase. Peter hadn’t really been paying attention, but reckoned finding the way back down to the bar should be easy enough.

  Except, when he stepped outside his room, Peter couldn’t even remember which way to turn. He set off to the right, and followed the corridor round and past several other rooms. But it didn’t look familiar.

  A side passage took him through to another corridor, which soon ended in a wall. Peter sighed with frustration and turned back.

  Someone was watching him. He felt their eyes on him before he saw the figure standing in a doorway.

  “Hello?” he said. Now he was going to have to admit he’d got lost. How embarrassing was that? “Sorry, can I ask…?”

  It was a girl, about Peter’s age or maybe a bit older. She was slim with angular features framed by dark hair that was cut off the collar and into a spiky fringe, like a rebellious public schoolboy. Her green eyes caught the light, like a cat’s. Well, maybe staying here might not be so bad after all, Peter thought. He smiled.

  But the girl’s expression didn’t change from a sort of grudging half-smile which might have been sympathetic or mocking. She pointed at a door in the opposite wall. She said nothing, but when Peter hesitated, she nodded like she was encouraging a small child to behave itself.

  Peter tried the door, and found it gave out on to the main staircase. He knew where he was now. He turned back, and found to his disappointment that the girl had gone, the door closed behind her.

  “Thanks,” he said to the empty corridor.

  His dad was already in the bar, talking to another man. It wasn’t Mike from the university, who was working with Dad and Abby on the survey.

  This man was older – in his fifties, maybe. His hair was steel grey and he was wearing a plain, dark suit. He spoke with an air of quiet authority, though Peter couldn’t hear what he was saying. Professor Crichton was listening, which was unusual. He didn’t listen to anyone who wasn’t worth listening to. And in the professor’s estimation that was very few people.

  “Are you Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  He hadn’t seen the young man sitting in the corner. Though Peter soon saw that actually he was only about his own age. He looked older as he too was wearing a suit. He had unruly fair hair that toppled forward, but there was an obvious resemblance to the older man.

  “Thought you must be. I’m David Forrest. You want a drink? They’ll be ages yet.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Peter sat down on a stool opposite David Forrest. “That your dad?”

  He recognised the name – Forrest. The older man must be Sebastian Forrest, who was sponsoring the survey. That explained why Dad was listening – this guy was in effect paying his wages.

  “It’s all right here,” David was saying. “We’ve got rooms in the new wing, round the back. You in the old part?”

  “It’s certainly old. I got lost just finding the stairs.”

  David grinned. “Tell me about it. Whole place is a maze. But the people are okay. Mrs Seymour is a bit…” He stopped to finish his drink. “I can’t think of her as Faye. People that age shouldn’t have first names.”

  Peter laughed, nodding. “I know what you mean.”

  David leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Especially as she calls him Mr Seymour.”

  Peter turned to look. A man had arrived behind the bar and was moving bottles and glasses round. He had a thick
mane of grey hair, and walked with a slight stoop. “Mr Seymour?” he said, turning back.

  “That’s all she ever calls him.”

  Peter gave a half-smile. “You here for long?”

  David shrugged. “A few days. Dad’s overseeing some of the building work, though it’s pretty much ground to a halt for now. Recession, you know. Cash flow challenges. There’s not a lot to do round here,” he went on, “but I’ll show you what there is if you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not now, though. Looks like you’re off.” David got to his feet as his father came over.

  Sebastian Forrest’s eyes were as grey as his hair. He nodded at Peter and shook hands like David had done. It seemed a bit formal and old-fashioned.

  “I was telling your father, you should see the stones at sunset. Quite a sight.”

  Dad was close behind. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “And I need to check what Mike and Abby have been getting up to. You ready for a field trip?”

  “I guess so,” Peter agreed. He’d have liked to stay and talk to David for longer. “Catch you later,” he said.

  “Are the stones close to the village?” Peter asked.

  The professor pulled out of the car park. “As the crow flies. But we’re not crows. The road doesn’t take a very direct route.”

  As they left the last small houses behind, everything changed. A new roundabout had a wide road off it that seemed to go nowhere. In the distance, Peter could see several massive diggers. They stood idle and silent, stark against the white, cloudy sky. Beside them was a cluster of temporary buildings – workmen’s huts, skips, a bright blue portaloo… Even the new stuff here looked neglected and dead.

  A huge advertising hoarding at the edge of the roundabout announced:

  WOLFSTONE MANOR ESTATE