Chapter 1: Christingle
Crack! The horrific deep violet thunderbolt hit the twisted church spire sending trillions of sparks into the air and splitting the twilight sky in three.
The church walls shook, and whatever lay in its crypt? Well, it would have awakened. Every soul would have had racing hearts at the crushing sound. Every soul except Mrs Pippa Joy.
Mrs Joy stared, with contemplation, at the chasm of light which peppered the church pews, and she glanced at the parish of faces who just stared, shocked, panged, pale, ashen and stoic just like the British stand, especially in church, one next to the other. No one said a word.
“Quite a strike,” the Vicar interrupted his own sermon, shaking his head up and down like it was on a puppet string, “quite an almighty strike on the bell tower. Let’s hope the vagrant owls up there are still in one piece, huh?” Mr Pye was quite a character for a clergyman, quite a character indeed with no hair, a rotund tummy full of beer, Earl Grey and cheeky dishevelled slices of his own Simnel cake, and an imagination to which even the most rebellious of youths might not even conspire.
He picked his arms of old dust which had fallen from the roof and, though ashen from the impending winter storm, Mr Pye sniggered, again, at his own wit. “Right, The First Noel, let’s begin, again,” he announced, completely ignoring a fluttering of white feathers landing in the open crease of his hymn book. He brushed them aside, and the greying church sat in suspended peace.
Angelic.
Suspended.
Churchy peace.
“I said, let’s begin, again?Are you all deaf? Sorry, William, what did you say?”
The irony of it.
Mrs Joy liked that.
Peace.
And the Vicar.
And the Vicar’s ludicrousy. They sort of came hand in hand. Especially when she was day-dreaming. Mrs Joy, she had always day-dreamed. The church was too heavenly despite Mr Joy grimacing at such a ludicrous comment for a religious building. “Of course it’s heavenly, you stupid woman. It’s a church,” he was known to splutter at his wife into his tea most days.
Mrs Joy believed in souls.
She smiled as the white-washed walls around her stood tall, old, yet far far far from foreboding. She crossed her legs, and a feeling of strangeness, unaccountable and ghostly, seemed to pass right through her; the most irksome shadow, but it did not fuss Mrs Joy. She squeezed her husband’s palm. And looked at him. Eyes wide. She smiled, the hugest wonky smile taking over her entire face. Mr Joy frowned, his silence asking questions through his piercing eyes. What is that witless woman up to now? He dreaded to know the triviality. “Please, Mrs Joy, don’t get up to anything. It’s hard to control, I know, but no more outbursts of lumpy porridge and limp spinach. Let’s get through the afternoon without any hitches.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Mr Joy. Hitch-less? Impossible.”
At first, Christingle appeared like any other year.
Each festive pew at Hollingbourne church was filled with an admirable soul, and the nave was awash with tall flickering candlelight casting different shadows onto the solid church walls and dancing a happy dance giving the gathering of the masses a warm rush inside.
Each little runny-nosed, sticky-faced, tired-eyed child gripped their orange, juice squirting down their clothes, which were already covered in mud from outside, and foughtwith the tallest thinnest candle that wobbled and tipped, its wick burning too ferociously for a little wax stick to not send half the nave into Accident and Emergency. The flames weaved in and out of thin air as the passing wind came.
And went.
Belle flung back her straggly golden locks as her flame shot six metres up with the most enormous gust, like a tornado it was, but it still caught a mass of her scarecrow head. It fizzed with the heat and sizzled into tiny curled up dry twig-like bits of cotton. She brushed it aside trying to look calm. “What?” she mouthed. “I didn’t do anything!” Belle’s face turned crimson and Vicar Pye coughed and choked half expecting the Police to arrest him this year. He was surprised he had gotten this far. Fifteen years and only seven minor burns and three major ones, so he was doing quite well. Charlie should never have been trying to eat the cocktail sticks whilst the flames were burning uncontrollably anyway, and it was his Mum’s fault entirely. She should never have said yes to the ball of fire in the first place. Surely she had enough to deal with? Both parents, and the in-laws in faulty wheelchairs, and four other tots below two. What was she thinking?
Belle should not have peered so closely, either. An entire section of her hair was now singed to a baked vegetable crisp. At least it matched the other bent-too close-over-a-fried-egg-escapade side.
William elbowed his sister, hard.
Belle stuck out her tongue in retaliation. “What was that for?” she mouthed again, digging him back in return, causing his Christingle to lose its balance and drip wax onto his trousers. He hurriedly picked at the evidence to remove the stain before his Mum noticed.
But she did.
Yet, awash with blissful nostalgia at the carol from the choir, she just grinned and winked at him. Trying her hardest to reprimand the boy, Mrs Joy was always at a loss. “Wills, hu-hum…”
Mr Joy leant forward, shaking his head. “Is that all you can say, Pippa? That’s no kind of telling off” he whispered. He was too far away for a quick slap to William’s head, so he poked his head sideways to catch his son’s eyes, but William just stared straight in front. He could feel more than six pairs of eyes, at least, drilling into his skull. So, it was best to glare out front.
Ignore it.
If he didn’t see it? Well, it wasn’t happening.
He should have stuck to that theory, perhaps.
William frowned, trying to pretend to sing in tune. He was an enthusiastic singer, so he was told. That was what his school report from Miss Lovett had said last term. “That child, he has an enthusiastic voice alongside Rowson with his beautiful tones. Quite a contrast to hear such a variety.” William had taken that as a massive compliment, from a teacher who prided herself on English or was it Numeracy, or Science? It kept changing he couldn’t keep up. He’d been cocky all through dinner that night, stuffing his mouth with sausages, spitting out the red onions, chestnut stuffing and pea shells, and singing until the neighbours, both sides, hammered For Sale signs deep into their front lawns.
No one came to look around.
Mrs Joy glared at her offspring to make it appear she was in control. “Sorry, Nicholas, but what am I to do? We’re in public. I can’t slap their…”
“…really? Here, let me,” and Mr Joy tried to squeeze through the tiniest knobbliest gap in front of Mrs Joy’s knees. There was so not enough room, and Mr Joy, he was about to explode.
“Sssh,” your Dad’s hair is about to go up in flames of anger, Rosabella.”
“Sorr…” but as Belle tried to regain her posture, frazzled hair sticking to her cheeks and most of it still billowing black soot, the tips of her boots clipped the uneven church floor.
And she tripped.
Her life-size candle upturned and its entire waxy liquid accumulating in her orange plopped out, again, onto William’s clothes.
“Imbecile!” William mouthed back as the hot wax seeped through to his bare skin beneath. He writhed in pain as the singing from the docks got a bit louder, and he tried to pinch Belle. His fingers snapped shut around her wrist and she kicked him.
“ROSABELLA!” Mrs Joy couldn’t stand it any longer, and for some bizarre reason she just joined in and kicked her daughter hard on the shin.
William sniggered.
Belle turned pale as she rubbed her ankle and let out a scream.
Vicar Pye peered over his rimmed glasses, and squinted around. “Problem somewhere, is there? Can I hear mice? Those blasted rodents eating the hymn books. If anyone sees one, can you just stamp on it, please? Yes? Are we agreed? We’ll just kill them from now on?”
William shoved a grape from the Christingle into his mouth and sucked it to stop himself from screaming out loud. His skin had started to blister from the hot wax. “Idiotic girls.”
“Mice apparently, actually,” Belle sniggered back still rubbing her ankle. She could feel a huge bump.
The church went cold.
Ice cold.
The walls felt damp.
Steaming.
William could see that Belle copied him with a sugared jelly. “Mmm!” Belle uttered from inside trying hard not to explode at William’s expense. His trousers were sizzling. An ambulance pulled up. “You should have had a green jelly, better than a sour grape,” Belle whispered. “Oh no, that’s you. A sour grape!”
“Genius,” Vicar Pye spoke out. “Timely stuff, that ambulance.”
“You’re such a slug,” William mouthed again, sucking in his cheeks as his trousers stuck to the hairs of his thigh beneath. “I’m not going to A&E. Not again. My list is massive. My list of ailments. Mum will be carted off.”
“Again!” Belle snorted. “She only does it to get out of cooking.”
“That’s a good thing, those fritters were disgusting. I blocked the toilet after that escapade. An entire roll of loo paper! I couldn’t sit down for a week. My bottom was on fire. Mum tipped that whole pot of chili powder in the tray. Accident, apparently…but I saw her singing away and tipping and singing and tipping as if trying to kill us all…”
“…needed to get your bowels moving, I s’pose.”
“S’pose.”
“Did the trick!”
“Gross! Belle, we’re in church…”
“…I don’t really care.”
“Dad had a fit. Do you remember? When I blocked the loo. His hair went all fuzzy. Looked like a beast!”
“Do I remember? Do I remember?” Belle tried to make her voice a whisper, but her stomach had started to turn. “Do I remember? Do I remember…”
“…Sing Hosanna, Sing Hosanna, Sing Hosanna to the King of Kings. Sing Hosanna…” the choir were mounting to a crescendo.
“Tried to say it was those butternut fritters, but Dad wasn’t having any of it,” William blurted back over the tones from the organ. “God, she’s dreadful, that Miss Provence. Who taught her to play?”
“Dad just moaned about the price of toilet paper and told you to drink more water.”
“That was the worst advice ever.”
“Then you were ill again. He’d connected the sewage drains to the fresh water mains…”
“…don’t remind me,” William went green and sick came up into his mouth. “Broccoli; carbonised.”
The ambulance passed.
“Oh. I was hoping for at least a ride home,” Vicar Pye slumped back down. “Beer will be brewing and wine will be ready to slurp. Gooseberry. Or was it Rhubarb? No, Ginger, yes that’s it, a massive bottle of Ginger wine. Hiccup. Either’s good. Medicinal, of course.”
As William listened to the angelic choir’s tone he began to think. The choir’s voices drowned out and soon he was day-dreaming. The quick candle flame shadows, still peppering patterns all around him, seemed to be talking.
He could hear a gentle whisper.
He looked at each person sitting in their pew.
They were all smiling as they listened to the carols.
In a trance, they were.
Nobody appeared uneasy.
It was like a time-warp had set in.
William glanced at Belle. She was scratching her ears. “Belle,” he whispered, “Belle!” his tone increased, and Mrs Joy hushed her son’s outburst with a quick, yet silent, glare. She glared again. Harder this time, she thought. William took absolutely no notice.
“William,” Mrs Joy opened her eyes their widest, but William had no intention of answering, “William,” was the next call, a louder, less subtle whisper.
“Mrs Joy,” Mr Joy muttered.
“Thought you wanted me to whack them to high-Heaven!”
“Changed my mind.”
“You’re just hoping for an invite.”
“What invite?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t think I’ve noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“Vicar Pye’s comment, about his wine. You want to go back to his place and drink ’til midnight like last year, don’t you?”
“Well, it is Christmas…”
“…hypocrite…”
“…no random outbursts. Remember? No wands and books and quotes from some oddity, please? Can’t we just have Christmas, just this once? Just like any other family? You know? Burnt sausages and Grandad completely slaughtered on the couch? I know you can manage that. You do every week. One of those types of Christmases? I’d like that.”
William still stared straight ahead.
“Mrs Joy?”
She just now stared straight ahead.
“Women, for the love of God,” and Mr Joy, he raised his arms and then slapped them back down by his sides.
“Nicholas! Blasphemy. In God’s home. Really.” Then, Pippa Joy, she just stared straight ahead. “Wine, please, vicar, wine please.”
William and Belle wriggled.
They smiled, falsely, warily, at all the faces surrounding them.
They tried to appear normal.
But they both felt on edge.
What is wrong with this place? William uttered. They’re all just a load of muttering idiots with nothing better to be doing. I want to get on with my Christmas.
The choir continued higher and higher and louder and louder in volume to the sickening heights of a ruckus melody and as one little choir boy, standing personified at the church altar, reached his topmost crescendo, and the font rattled on the floor, and the lights rattled in their sockets, and the music scores shifted in their stands, and the Vicar’s hair flapped about in a wild, uncontrollable fashion, a vivid ashen face appeared through the cracks in the church brickwork and mouthed an easily recognisable word.
“Help!”
William’s blood ran dry and he jumped up, knocking his tapestry pew cushion to the floor. The little brass rings that hooked each cushion underneath their wooden seats wrung out as they clattered onto the marble tiles, and Mrs Joy glared in disbelief.
“Sit still,” she whispered, embarrassed that her offspring were so restless, unruly people may even think. “Stop messing about. What will the Vicar’s wife think? Or Miss Provence, or that new couple at number 5?” but, her attention was drawn elsewhere as the heavy church door flew back. It caused a rift in the Vicar’s sermon and a gasp from the pews. A wind surged down the aisles pushing Mr Joy’s hat clear off his head. Church postcards and pamphlets twisted and circled and hovered in mid-air, then flitted to the floor.
“Sorry Mum. We shan’t mess around again,” Belle looked down, her eyes darting and flashing. She clasped William’s hand and they exchanged glances through tugs and squeezes.
Mrs Joy did not hold out any chances there. Not mess around again? That would be a miracle. “Reckless,” she heard the lady with the pink beret cough under her breath. “I blame the parents.”
“Who was she?” Belle whispered, trying hard to look interested in the choir. William shrugged, a pensive shrug which made Belle feel more than a little nervous.
Everyone just still stared ahead.
***
The walk home was tiresome.
Endless.
The wind had dropped to nothing.
In fact, thinking about it, William realised there wasn’t really any wind outside at all. Just inside the church. He whispered with Belle, and despite normally bickering, they now just whispered and exchanged looks, tripping and nearly falling into the road.
“Be careful, Rosabella. That tractor nearly had you. Didn’t you see the sheep tossing their horns your way through the tractor’s slats? Surprised you’re still in possession of both your eyes! Actually, I’m surprised those sheep have horns,” Mr Joy criticised, yawned and rubbed his eyes. Sheep with horns, he carried on mumbling to himself. Sheep with horns?
“What is it, William? Why are you so quick to get back home? It makes me feel nervous watching you run up the hill and not drag your feet for once. You two, you’re as thick as thieves.” Mrs Joy frowned and bore holes into the backs of her children’s heads before she watched her husband scratch his balding one, returning his knitted hat to his thinning hair.
It was a chilly evening.
But not only the weather made William and Belle hug their coats tighter to their skin; the presence of something indescribable aroused the biggest goose bumps.
***
The inglenook fireplace roared with heat.
Belle wrung out her hair. “It’s sweltering in here. Why’s it so hot?”
“Your Mother, no doubt. Her and that thermostat. Anyone would think we lived in Iceland.”
“We do, dear, if you’ve got anything to do with it. It was turned to 4 degrees. FOUR degrees. It’s winter out there.”
“And? We’re indoors, not camped outside.”
“That was a different service, I must say,” Mrs Joy changed the subject and scrutinised her husband. He pretended to mess with his glasses.
“Hmm, apart from our troublesome two…no difference there,” Mr Joy puffed into his Paris News avoiding any eye contact with anyone. But William and Belle had not heard a word. Instead, they sat in pretence warming up by the glow of the fireplace whilst their insides turned the most chilling of somersaults.
“I’m sure it gets better and better each year…” Mrs Joy tapped the table. “Is this kettle ever going to boil?”
“…what? Our kid’s behaviour? Are you quite all right? It gets worse and worse from where I’m sitting.”
“The choir, dear, the choir gets better and better each year. It was rather tuneful today; it lifted the roof.” Mrs Joy stared to the ceiling of their cottage.
“It certainly did that,” William uttered under this breath. “I could see the rafters.”
“Rafters?What did you say?” Mr Joy stared himself towards the ceiling. “There are no rafters showing. Not one at all, William.” Mr Joy crumpled down even further into the Paris News just in case Mrs Joy gave him one of her roving eyes, again, for neither having decorated the house, nor fixed the peg tiles since he had supposedly become more homebound. “Rafters indeed. It’s as solid a house that I ever knew,” he mumbled, he always mumbled, the pages in his hands becoming sweaty.
“Ghostly,” Belle shivered.
“I could see the Vicar looked very proud of his new young singers,” Mrs Joy continued to talk to herself. “Any more tea?” She held up the terracotta teapot nodding. “Well?”
“Yes, please.” Looking in completely the wrong direction, his eyes darting about, William tipped his cup towards the hanging spout but then tripped backwards in shock, dropping his cup until it rolled across the rug and smashed on the skirting boards. Scalding black tea splashed out all over the carpet.
“William, do be careful. That’s stained. Luckily I hadn’t poured too much...” Mrs Joy tried to just rub it in.
“…that doesn’t matter! He should be paying attention, not staring about the house; as always,” Mr Joy still just spoke into his magazine. “What is it with you? First in church you were clanking with the cushions and whispering with her,” he pointed to Belle, “and now you’re a complete idiot, distracted with something. What is it, boy?” Mr Joy raised just his eyebrows over the top of his pages anticipating a reply, but William did not argue, and he dare not catch his Dad’s inescapable pupils.
“Nothing, just chilly, that’s all. You’d better stoke up that fire, Dad,” and William disappeared with Mrs Joy at his heels.
“Chilly? It’s not chilly at all. That fire has at least three sparks. You just need to hover over it to feel the benefit. What’s wrong with a jumper or two, or did you lose them all, at camp, again?” Mr Joy was now so far down in the cushions he could have been mistaken for being asleep. “Chilly? This family needs to be a bit more robust.”
“William? W-i-l-l-i-a-m, come back! Those children. Butter on the cushions, crumbs on the sofa, and what’s this? Your old sock, Williaaaaaaaam! It won’t wash itself, you know?” Mrs Joy began to clear away the plates, muttering to herself. “So excitable at their age…huh, what was that? And where’s my steps? I can’t reach my tea-towels without my steps.” She tiptoed further into the kitchen She’d heard a crash. A little puff of soot emerged from the hearth and a pair of black boots disappeared back up inside the chimney leaving nothing but a charcoal smell lingering in the kitchen. “This day is getting odder and odder,” she muttered, looking at her large empty wine glass sitting on the breakfast bar and the nearly empty bottle of Merlot placed carefully by its side. She stared closer. Oh, it is actually completely empty. Surely not? She rubbed her head. Cooking, that’s it. I used it for cooking the beetroot.
The kitchen was dark.
Austere.
A little spooky if you asked the lady at Number 5.
“And all this mess? When will my husband learn to, at least, wipe down the kitchen tops? And these burnt old toast crumbs aren’t going to take themselves to the bin, are they, Mr Joy?”
“What, dear?”
“They’re a menace to clean up…
“…what, dear?”
“Toast crumbs.”
“No, no thank you. Don’t fancy roast plums.” Whatever they are. Sounds vomit-inducing.
Or was it me? These crumbs? Nothing surprises me, it really doesn’t. Not even myself, it appears.
***
William and Belle sat in their attic room.
In silence.
It was freezing.
“Did you see that? Did you see her again, Belle?” William’s shaky whisper broke the icy air. He could see his own breath. His heart thumped. And he pictured the white-faced stranger who had found her way into their home.
“Err, yes. Course. Course I did. Who is she? In church I thought maybe I was hallucinating, just patterns in the shadows, until her voice mouthed heeelp.”
“Stop it Belle…it’s not funny.”
“You scared?”
“No, just interested. And, if you hadn’t noticed, it’s a bit, well, err, paranormal. She could kill you in the night.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“She might do.”
“She’d be better off killing you. No one would miss your mess.”
“WILLIAM! Come and put this Scalextric BACK in its box…NOW! Not tomorrow, but now!”
Boring.
“But here? Why’s she here? Right here in our fireplace? She looks like Mrs Plugget, you know, Mrs Plugget’s hair and stare,” Belle picked the scab on her elbow. “That was your fault, William.”
“Why?”
“Because you left the stable door unbolted and I fell out the top half. Could have broken my neck.”
“Wish you had.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Well, unless Mrs Plugget died over the weekend, I don’t think it’s her.”
“Just saying that ghost looks like her…and anyway, whoever she is, she’s lost, don’t you think?”
“Well, not many people set up home in a fireplace.”
“She looks pale, and sad, and her clothes, they’re a bit strange. Didn’t you think?”
“The war, they’re clothes from the war, Belle.”
“Well, that’s definitely Mrs Plugget, then.”
“We’ve been learning about that at school. Her hair and her clothes, they’re war time.”
“But the war, that was years ago,” Belle frowned. “Why would she be wearing clothes from a completely different era? It just doesn’t make sense?”
“Idiot! She’s obviously trapped in time…”
“Trapped in time? Listen to yourself…”
“…but that’s not as strange as the fact that I seem to recognise her face.” William tapped his fingers onto the sash window pane and pursed his lips. “Come on.”
William peered down the stairwell. He could hear both his parents clattering about in the kitchen, washing the dishes and arguing over who had drunk the last of the tea and when on earth did that enormous leek start growing out of the cupboard? He crept across the landing into the study. Belle followed in his footsteps. They pushed open the study door. It creaked, loudly. William pulled out his Dad’s desk chair and switched on the computer. It pinged into action.
“What are you doing?” Belle whispered, afraid her Dad would appear. He always did. “William?”
“Ssh, look.” Pushing the oak door shut, William scrolled through a number of newspaper pages from a long time ago. The print was ornate and the style of writing really hard to follow.
“It looks like Mrs Cray’s writing.”
“Who’s she?”
“English teacher. For the top performers. You wouldn’t be in that class.”
“Well, I AM, actually. I just didn’t recognise the name. We call her Betty.”
“No, you don’t. Who calls their teachers by their first names?”
“We do, the Top of the Top Performers,” William carried on scrolling, and then he stopped. “There!” he pointed at the computer screen. Belle peered closer. Her eyes widened.
“William, that’s the girl in the church and in our fireplace,” Belle read on. “She was to be an evacuee, during the war…” Belle flicked a fly that had landed on her leg. “Gross. Where was I?”
“Let me.” William twisted the screen his way.
“I was reading it…”
“…you’re too slow, and anyway, you don’t know how to use this thing.”
“Yes I do, actually.”
“They all assembled in Hollingbourne church, it says. All the children were waiting for their train, to get away, to seek safety far far away, but look at this piece here...” William pointed to the spookiest bit. “The newspaper article says she was left at the church to take a train to Yorkshire…”
“…oh cool, puddings…”
…”but when the children were counted onto the carriage she wasn’t there. She had simply disappeared. How peculiar.”
“How did you recognise her?”
“Her photo, it’s pinned onto the church wall by the crypt. You know, the marble tomb to commemorate those lost in the war? Were you actually listening on that tour?”
“Not really. Em had a wasp up her dress and I was trying to calm her down, and then we realised it was just Jack from Year 5. He was shoving a bit of Lego taped to a stick up her clothes and making buzzing sounds.”
“Sounds about right.”
“He kissed her last week.”
“Nice.”
There was a crash downstairs.
“Mrs Joy, please don’t pile 16 Spode plates one on top of the other.”
“I’m not, there’s just 13. I broke three last week.”
“12 now then.”
“Her face is there, among that group of evacuees holding black cases and looking like they are on a fashion parade, in their Sunday bests, before leaving for the countryside. I saw the picture last week. Remember?”
“No…”
“Belle, you do remember. Jack was tugged out of assembly after the outing? He kept laughing at the clothes from 1939 and saying that Katy Suggs looked like one of those evacuees. It’s not her fault her Mum dresses her in shirts starched to death and boys’ shoes.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now.”
William scratched his head. “The girl must be stuck somewhere. Stuck in time. See, she hasn’t aged one little bit. She’s even dressed in the same outfit she wore that day. Something happened that morning and she never managed to depart.”
William shivered.
There was a distinct chill surrounding him.
The atmosphere felt thick.
A nasty smell penetrated his nose.
“Mrs Joy! MRS JOY! Your raspberry and cumin lasagne is burnt to a crisp! A really bad crisp. In fact, the oven, it’s in meltdown. Another trip to the dump. That’ll be me, no doubt. MRS JOOOY?”
“Yes, dear?”
Not wanting Belle to notice his inner alarm, William shuffled across the threadbare rug. His elbow brushed alongside Belle’s hair, and as it did so an invisible static crackled between them causing William to involuntarily shoot backwards, hitting the solid oak bookshelf. Its doors swung apart. The doors were ordinarily locked, though prised apart one year when Mrs Joy was in desperate need of some vile smelling pot pourri, but this time they simply drifted open. Not a creak nor a forceful hand needed to oblige. And the key? Well, the key was always missing.
“Did you feel that?” William scrambled to his feet, launching his shaking bones in Belle’s direction. “Huh? Belle, did you absolutely feel that? Tell me you did?”
“You’ve made my hair a complete disaster, William!” Belle glared, and she paced closer towards the jewelled mirror for a morbid look at her scalp.
“You didn’t need me to create a scarecrow on your head, Rosabella, really you didn’t.” William tried hard to regain a sense of bravado, but it only lasted a few seconds, drowned out by Belle’s almighty scream. “Your hair, it’s not that bad, keep your voice down.”
“It’s not my hair,” Belle quivered, whispering, stuck to the spot, her feet like concrete boots. “It’s not my hair at all! It was her.” Belle could not move. She felt a distinct tingle down her spine but she could absolutely not pick up the soles of her feet from the floor. She was stuck fast as she felt the tips of fingers run down her back.
“Your hair, Belle, it’s a massive improvement!” William threw his head back and cackled, “...but stop gripping my arm, I don’t want my hair to be electrified like that!” William pushed off Belle’s palms, which were tightly pressed onto his shoulder, and then spun around.
He had felt nothing.
No bones and no flesh made contact with his hand. Belle’s arms and hands were nowhere near him. He was standing, quite alone, a good three steps from the mirror into which Belle was staring still struck with fear. He tested his arm length, stretched his limbs out in front of his body towards his sister and, even with a little cheating, the tips of his stubby fingernails still left a huge distance between them. “Oh! That touch, it’s not you, Belle? You saw her...I felt her grip,” William shuddered.
“Crikey,” William whispered under his breath into the mirror. He held Belle’s glare. “Crikey, she’s found her way in, Belle. We’ve only gone and let a ghost into our house.”
