turned inside out, like the negative of a photograph.
In the distance, he could see four people, standing on a grey, deserted beach. Three boys and a girl, all of them about his own age. They were too far away for him to be able to see their faces, but somehow he recognized them and knew they were waiting for him. He had to reach them, but there was no way. He was trapped on his tower of rock. The storm was growing and now there was something dark and terrible stretching out across the sea. A giant wing that was folding around him. The girl was calling to him.
“Matthew! Matthew!”
The wind caught the two words and tossed them aside. The girl pleaded with him but time was running out for her too. The beach cracked and began to break up. Dark crevices appeared, the sand spilling into them. The waves were rushing in. The four of them were trapped, unable to move.
“I’m coming!” Matt called.
He took a step towards them and stumbled, then twisted forward and fell. He cried out. But there was nothing to stop him. Everything spun as he plummeted through the night sky, down towards the sea.
Matt woke up with a start.
He was lying in bed at Hive Hall. He could make out the wooden beams on the ceiling, the dried flowers in their vase on the chest of drawers. There was a full moon, the pale light washing through the room. For a moment he lay still, thinking about his dream. He had dreamt it many times, not just at Hive Hall but before. It was always the same, apart from two things. Each time, the presence he had felt forming itself – the folding wing or whatever it was – had come a little closer to taking shape. And each time, he woke up a few seconds later, a few centimetres nearer the end of his fall. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t wake up in time.
He looked at his watch, turning it to the window to check. It was almost midnight. It had been ten o’clock when he went to bed. What had woken him up? He had been exhausted by the day’s work and should have slept through.
And then he heard it.
It was faint and far away, and yet still quite clear, carried on the stillness of the night. It came from the wood, sliding over the silver tips of the trees under the moonlight.
Whispering.
At first Matt thought it was nothing more than the wind rustling through the branches, but there was no wind. And as he threw back the cover and sat up in bed, he heard another sound. It was underneath the whispers, constant and unchanging. A soft, electronic hum. The whispers stopped, then started again. The hum went on.
Despite himself, Matt felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. The sounds were far away but the horrible thing was that they could have been coming from somewhere inside the building. They were all around him. He got out of bed and went over to the window.
The moon slid behind a cloud and for a moment everything was dark. Yet there was a light. In the surrounding darkness, somewhere not far from the edge of the wood, he could see a faint glow. The light was being swallowed up by the trees, hemmed in on all sides. However, some of it had escaped through gaps in the branches and had spread out, the cold white shafts evaporating in the air. It was electric, not the light of a fire. And it seemed to be coming from the same source as the sound.
Who was there? What could be happening in the middle of a Yorkshire wood – and could it have something to do with the warning he had been given only that afternoon?
“You don’t want to be anywhere near here. Do you understand me?”
Suddenly Matt wanted to know – and almost before he had worked out what he was doing he had put on his clothes, opened the door and slipped out. He paused for a moment, listening for any sound within the farmhouse. Mrs Deverill’s room was at the end of the corridor. The door was closed and Matt had never seen inside her room. He guessed she would be sound asleep. She always went to bed at exactly half past nine.
In the distance, he could see four people, standing on a grey, deserted beach. Three boys and a girl, all of them about his own age. They were too far away for him to be able to see their faces, but somehow he recognized them and knew they were waiting for him. He had to reach them, but there was no way. He was trapped on his tower of rock. The storm was growing and now there was something dark and terrible stretching out across the sea. A giant wing that was folding around him. The girl was calling to him.
“Matthew! Matthew!”
The wind caught the two words and tossed them aside. The girl pleaded with him but time was running out for her too. The beach cracked and began to break up. Dark crevices appeared, the sand spilling into them. The waves were rushing in. The four of them were trapped, unable to move.
“I’m coming!” Matt called.
He took a step towards them and stumbled, then twisted forward and fell. He cried out. But there was nothing to stop him. Everything spun as he plummeted through the night sky, down towards the sea.
Matt woke up with a start.
He was lying in bed at Hive Hall. He could make out the wooden beams on the ceiling, the dried flowers in their vase on the chest of drawers. There was a full moon, the pale light washing through the room. For a moment he lay still, thinking about his dream. He had dreamt it many times, not just at Hive Hall but before. It was always the same, apart from two things. Each time, the presence he had felt forming itself – the folding wing or whatever it was – had come a little closer to taking shape. And each time, he woke up a few seconds later, a few centimetres nearer the end of his fall. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t wake up in time.
He looked at his watch, turning it to the window to check. It was almost midnight. It had been ten o’clock when he went to bed. What had woken him up? He had been exhausted by the day’s work and should have slept through.
And then he heard it.
It was faint and far away, and yet still quite clear, carried on the stillness of the night. It came from the wood, sliding over the silver tips of the trees under the moonlight.
Whispering.
At first Matt thought it was nothing more than the wind rustling through the branches, but there was no wind. And as he threw back the cover and sat up in bed, he heard another sound. It was underneath the whispers, constant and unchanging. A soft, electronic hum. The whispers stopped, then started again. The hum went on.
Despite himself, Matt felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. The sounds were far away but the horrible thing was that they could have been coming from somewhere inside the building. They were all around him. He got out of bed and went over to the window.
The moon slid behind a cloud and for a moment everything was dark. Yet there was a light. In the surrounding darkness, somewhere not far from the edge of the wood, he could see a faint glow. The light was being swallowed up by the trees, hemmed in on all sides. However, some of it had escaped through gaps in the branches and had spread out, the cold white shafts evaporating in the air. It was electric, not the light of a fire. And it seemed to be coming from the same source as the sound.
Who was there? What could be happening in the middle of a Yorkshire wood – and could it have something to do with the warning he had been given only that afternoon?
“You don’t want to be anywhere near here. Do you understand me?”
Suddenly Matt wanted to know – and almost before he had worked out what he was doing he had put on his clothes, opened the door and slipped out. He paused for a moment, listening for any sound within the farmhouse. Mrs Deverill’s room was at the end of the corridor. The door was closed and Matt had never seen inside her room. He guessed she would be sound asleep. She always went to bed at exactly half past nine.
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