Shiverton Hall by Emerald Fennell

him. The cup was cold on his palms, and the sun shone on his face as schoolmates and a bevy of supermodels congratulated him on his single-handed win. Suddenly, a wind began to blow, and the sun disappeared behind the clouds. The group of well-wishers and fans melted away, until George was standing alone on the steps of the cricket pavilion. In the distance, at the other end of the cricket field, he noticed a lone figure. It was just too far away for George to make out its identity, but he knew that whoever it was, it was looking at him. The figure started to move towards him. George tried to walk to the safety of the pavilion, but found himself completely immobile, as though his bones had been replaced with lead.
    The wind whipped George’s face as he squinted to see what thing it was that was quickly making its way across the field. The nearby woods began to creak and whine, but the noise seemed metallic, and not at all natural.
    George opened one eye, the sounds from his nightmare still ringing in his ears. He sat up when he realised that the creaking hadn’t been in his imagination: it was in his room. Resisting the impulse to throw himself back under his duvet, George slowly turned his head towards the corner of the room.
    Someone was sitting in his grandfather’s rocking chair.
    It was too dark to see who sat there, rocking and watching him.
    ‘Hello,’ George rasped. ‘Who’s there?’
    There was no reply, only the sound of the wood grinding against the floor as the chair moved back and forth.
    ‘Who’s there?’ George repeated, his voice catching in his throat like cat’s claws.
    Outside the clouds skidded past the moon, illuminating George’s room with silver light for just a moment, but it was long enough for George to see a tangle of bright, copper hair, a cobwebbed bowler hat and a hunched, armless torso.
    The figure smiled a thin, red grin and said, in a high whisper, ‘Hello, friend.’
     
     
    Arthur was demolishing his full English breakfast in the dining hall and talking to Jake, when George weaved his way through the tables towards them, looking dazed and a little shaky.
    ‘All right, mate?’ Arthur asked as George slumped on to the bench beside him. ‘You look rough.’
    ‘I feel it,’ George groaned.
    ‘What’s up?’ Jake asked, surprised. George was always cheerful and bouncy, even at breakfast.
    ‘I think our conversation yesterday, the one about the imaginary friends, must have freaked me out,’ George said, unable to look them in the eye.
    ‘Why?’ Arthur asked.
    ‘Because last night I think I saw . . .’ George went a little green and whispered, ‘Stripes.’
    His friends were silent for a moment, then let out a simultaneous hoot of laughter.
    ‘Guys,’ George said seriously, ‘I’m not kidding.’
    ‘Stripes!’ Jake giggled.
    ‘I’m serious,’ George continued. ‘Stripes was in my room in my grandfather’s rocking chair.’
    George’s friends could tell from the stricken look on his face that he wasn’t joking, and their laughter subsided. Arthur glanced nervously at Jake.
    ‘It was probably just a nightmare,’ Jake said.
    ‘I thought so too at first,’ George replied quietly. ‘But it was so vivid I’m certain I was awake. I know I talk about Shiverton being filled with ghosts and ghouls and all that, but have I ever been genuinely freaked out by anything?’
    Jake shook his head.
    ‘Exactly! I swear to you, last night wasn’t a dream. It was . . .’ George shuddered.
    ‘What happened?’ Arthur asked, intrigued and rather unnerved himself.
    George thought for a moment. ‘The thing is, although he was Stripes, he sort of . . . wasn’t. There was something different about him, something not quite right.’
    ‘Maybe you just don’t remember him properly,’ Jake added.
    ‘Maybe. But I was never scared of Stripes, and last night I was scared. Really scared.’
    ‘So what was different about him then?’ Arthur asked.
    George squeezed his eyes