The ghost locket, p.1
The Ghost Locket, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue: Spitalfields, London
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
I am eight. I’m standing outside a tall terrace house that has fancy green shutters and a solid black front door. I don’t want to go inside the house. Something about it doesn’t feel right. I have that feeling. That funny feeling that I get in my stomach sometimes.
“Freya?” I look up.
“Mmm-hmm?” She turns on the pavement, busy digging for her phone in her bag.
“Have I been to this house before?”
She stops digging. “Why do you ask that?”
“Um, I don’t know.” I do know. I already know not to talk to Freya about the feeling I’m having. “It just . . . it feels like I’ve been here before. Like I remember it.”
“Well, yes. You have been here before. A long time ago. Several times, in fact.”
“Okay.” If I’ve been here before, it should be all right. It’s just that I think there might be something that lives inside the house . . . I used to call them shadows, but now I’m older I know they’re not. They’re people. People who used to be alive. People who are stuck between this world and what comes next. I call them spirits now. When I notice one, I just do this thing where I pretend I haven’t seen it at all. The spirit will usually go away then.
“Coming?” Freya is at the door, framed by the ivy that climbs up either side. A glass-and-iron pendant light hangs heavy overhead.
I nod. I want to see Elsie and I know she’s inside. Elsie is Freya’s great aunt and she’s one of my favourite people in the world. Elsie comes to visit us every year in Singapore, but this year we’ve come to her instead.
Freya grabs the iron knocker and knocks twice. It takes a few moments before the door creaks open.
“There you are!” Elsie beams as she opens the door wide. She is all silvery hair and rosy cheeks.
I hesitate in the doorway. Something feels . . . wrong. Like I’m not welcome inside.
“Come on, Lolli, where’s my hug?” Elsie says.
Of course I’m welcome inside. I dash past Freya into the hallway and am enveloped by Elsie’s soft folds.
“Come here, you,” she says over the top of me, pulling in Freya as well.
Still a bit unsure, I peek around Elsie’s skirt.
What a strange place. It’s almost like I’ve stepped into the past. The entrance hall is gloomy, the walls layered thick with years of creamy paint. The only light comes from some old glass lamps on the wall with candles in them. The flames flicker and dance. All the things I can see – a heavy bench seat, a little hall table, the bumpy, uneven floor – look ancient and worn. A set of dark wooden stairs looms. The good news is, I can’t see any spirits. As Elsie draws back, I relax.
“Now, I’ve prepared some fun for this afternoon. I’ve found an old waffle iron and I’ve whipped up some batter. I thought we could make some waffles over the open fire, Lolli. Would you like that?”
I nod, barely hearing her question. The thing is, the moment I relaxed, a different feeling had come creeping in. Before it had been a bad feeling that I’d had. But this . . . if it’s a spirit, it’s a friendly one. I’m surprised. Sometimes they seem confused, or worried, or look lonely, but I don’t think I’ve met a friendly one before.
While the grown-ups talk, I continue to look around. A clock I can’t see tick-tocks and the house creaks and groans, as if it’s talking to me.
Maybe it is?
Freya has told me Elsie’s house is famous. I know not to call it a museum, because it isn’t. It’s an art installation. I don’t really understand what that means, but when Freya explains it, she says the house isn’t about artefacts, red ropes and reading labels. Apparently it’s about emotions and drama. That still doesn’t make complete sense to me, so I try to think of it like a ride where you experience the past. It’s not expensive for the public to get in here, but it can take ages to get a ticket. Especially at Christmastime, because Christmas at the House in Spitalfields is special. Every Christmas the house is crammed full of festive decorations, holly and ivy. It’s made all cosy and inviting and visitors are plied with mulled wine and mince pies by the hearth.
“Come on, Lolli. Let’s go down to the kitchen and make some waffles the old-fashioned way,” Freya says.
There’s a mirror behind her reflecting a room and in it I see a flash of something. “Who’s in there?” I ask Elsie, turning to point at the room itself.
“In the dining room? No one. It’s just us. The house is closed today.”
“There is. I think I saw someone. In the mirror.” I regret the words the moment they come out of my mouth, because I know what I just saw.
“You saw someone in the mirror?” Elsie says quickly. “Who? A girl?”
“I . . .” I start, but then stop as a feeling overtakes my body. Whatever I saw, whatever I felt that was kind and good just moments ago has gone. It has been chased away by something else. The something I felt a tingle of before when I was standing outside. Something angry. Something dark and hateful that is pressing down heavily from above, building and growing and doubling like an incoming deep, dark storm cloud. Now I’ve let it in, it grabs me with two hands. It sucks all the air from my lungs. Presses tight around my head. I know I’m not going to have the strength to push it away. It’s too late. I’m too late. It warned me and I didn’t listen. Now I can’t move my feet. I’m stuck here.
I’m at its mercy.
And it’s coming.
Coming.
Barrelling down the stairs like a wave.
Coming to take me.
To drown me.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock says, not caring.
Creak-crack, the stairs groan as the thing hurtles downwards.
I put my hand out, scrambling for something to hold on to. I grab at the wall, but it’s no good; my fingernails only slide down the layers of paint.
“Freya!” I panic. “Freya!”
I try the wall again, scratching, grasping. I have to hold on. It’s pulling me under.
Just as I think there’s no hope, the wall seems to shift. My fingers catch on something, taking hold as a shape forms, thrusting outwards. Something warm. Something . . . doughy. And then I see what that shape is.
A nose. Two eyes. A gaping hole of a mouth.
“Leave,” the face says, the lips shifting. “Leave this place, girl.”
I do the only thing my frozen body can do.
I scream.
I scream and I scream and I scream.
It’s Elsie who saves me. She grabs me. Grabs me tight. So tight.
“Get away from her,” I hear her hiss. “Get away from her, you nasty old bat.”
She picks me up, presses me to her and runs, my body jolting as we go. I keep screaming. Because it is everywhere. All around me. The house is full of it. This being that has swallowed me alive. Elsie keeps running. Along the hall. Down some stairs. And I keep screaming. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop.
“Lolli!” I hear Freya’s voice in the distance. “What’s wrong? What is it? Are you sick? Where does it hurt?”
Elsie keeps running.
Until we stop.
It feels like a hundred years before the pressure starts to release.
“It’s all right,” a voice soothes. “It’s all right. It’s all right . . .”
I dare to open an eyelid.
We’re sitting. I’m on Elsie’s lap. There is light. Warmth. Nice smells – toast, tea, cinnamon, spicy ginger, sweet marzipan. A fire crackles. Now the tight feeling around my head is not the work of a spirit, but of Elsie’s soft hand, cradling me to her.
The person, the face, the spirit is gone.
Elsie bends her head down to me. Her eyes meet mine and she whispers. “Listen to me now. Listen carefully. You are always safe by the hearth, Lolli. Always. Remember that.”
Each footstep brings me closer to the place of my nightmares.
I long to turn around and retrace the path we’ve taken. I want to scurry back to our hotel. Back to that ripple of a building, all modern, shiny glass that reflects the Thames. I want the doorman to give me that nod – the one that says, “I have no idea who you are, young lady, but lovely to see you again”. I want to slot the key in the door, feel the plush carpet underfoot, dive deep down under the smooth white sheets on my bed. There I’ll stay, forever and ever, no one knowing, the world passing by outside.
I love hotels.
“Olivia!” Freya calls out as I begin to lag that bit too far behind. “Come on!”
I’m only ever Olivia when I’m in trouble. I’m Lolli the rest of the time, because I couldn’t say my name properly when I was little. Sometimes I wond er what I’d be called if my mum was still here and Freya was just her best friend, like things should have been.
Freya doesn’t wait for my excuses but continues to stride ahead. She’s upset with me for several reasons. These reasons include:
we’re staying in a hotel (I’ve always refused to stay at her great aunt Elsie’s, which is next door to the place of my nightmares);
I’ve dawdled all morning, taking too long having breakfast, spending ages in the shower and changing outfits three times because I couldn’t decide what to wear; and
we said we’d be at the place of my nightmares at 9 am and we’re definitely not going to be there at 9 am, because it’s already 9.32 am.
The place of my nightmares is a house called the House in Spitalfields. I’d looked it up on the internet last night. Stared at photos and read people’s reviews, even though I already knew everything about it. I’d even checked maps and made a note of the side streets that we’d walk past on our approach.
And now we’re almost there.
I take a deep breath. Time to focus.
I’ve practised for this moment over and over for weeks now. I have to be prepared for the feelings. When they come, I must catch them with both hands. I’ll then drive them back behind a door I created in my mind a long time ago. I will slam that door shut and lock it tight.
The house isn’t haunted, like some people say it is. That’s just their imagination.
My imagination.
I notice a woman up ahead, standing by herself. She peers this way and that, looking a little confused. I am instantly on alert. They often look like that. But then another woman approaches her and the pair smile and hug and go on their way. It’s okay. Reminding myself to be careful, I fix my gaze on the bright, newly hung Christmas wreaths that decorate the traditional-looking lampposts above. The wreaths are made of brand new plastic. New things tend to be good. Safe. Wiped clean of history. I’m particularly nervous because we’re in Spitalfields now, which is an old place with a long history. Freya’s even told me how it got its name – from an old priory and hospital called St Mary Spital. It had the largest infirmary in medieval London. It can’t have been a very good one, because apparently there are burial pits close by with over 4,000 bodies in them.
We turn the corner, leaving the world of business behind us and are presented with a row of fine red-brick Georgian terraces. Elsie owns two of them – they’ve been in her family for over one hundred years, mostly rented out to other people. I know the story, because Freya has told me so many times. Elsie had just graduated from art school and decided she wanted to turn one of the terraces into something that was a cross between a museum and a piece of art. She had flipped a coin and the terrace on the left ended up becoming that piece of art. Elsie wanted to try and make people believe they’d wandered into the past. As if they’d walked into an old, still-life painting. Nothing would be labelled. Everything would be for looking. For feeling.
Well, I’d certainly felt something when I’d gone inside. That was for sure.
And that’s when it comes into view. Just as I remember from the nightmare I have almost every single night – green shutters, solid black front door.
I come to a complete stop.
“Lolli!”
“Coming.” I run the few steps over.
Freya huffs. “Honestly, if I ever find out who told you about that ridiculous ghost, I’ll . . .”
“No one told me. I know what I saw. I think I’ve always known what’s inside. You said yourself I’ve always hated it here. That I’d scream even when I was a tiny baby.”
“That’s what tiny babies do everywhere they go. I haven’t asked you to come here for years because of your aversion to the place. But you’re eleven years old now and big enough not to believe in silly stories.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. There’s no point. We’ve discussed this a hundred times. I feel a bit bad because I know I’m ruining this trip for her. Freya’s always been entranced by the House in Spitalfields. When she was younger, she’d spend her school holidays staying with Elsie and helping out her great aunt, especially during the Christmas season. She’s told me about those days lots of times.
Freya turns away and I remind myself that I need to concentrate. As I take those final few steps over and stand in front of the terrace house, I brace myself. I hadn’t known to do that when I was younger. Over the years I’ve worked out how to block spirits – how to make them think I haven’t noticed them at all. Not that I see them every day. I don’t. The thing is, I think it’s rare for a spirit to remain in this world. Or maybe it’s common and I can only see some of them. I don’t know. It isn’t something I talk about, because the few times I have, Freya has absolutely lost it and dragged me to see psychiatrists and psychologists. They never believe me, of course. And why should they? I wouldn’t, if I was them.
Push it down. Close it off. Block. Breathe. Don’t engage.
Freya stands on the doorstep, waiting. Her gaze softens when she looks at me – I must seem worried. This is not a good sign. I shouldn’t look scared. I shouldn’t look . . . well, like anything. What is inside the house can sense fear. It likes it. Feeds on it. Of that much I’m certain.
Freya’s hand rests on the door. “We have to, Lolli.”
“I know.”
“We promised Elsie we’d help. We both agreed.”
“I know.” Freya is right – I had agreed. But that was months ago and a world away, when Elsie had visited us in Singapore. I hadn’t really thought the time would actually come.
Unfortunately, it has.
“There’s so much to do for the opening of the house this weekend. Tanice needs us to pitch in.”
Tanice is the house curator. We’ve only met a couple times and never here, at the house itself, but she’s really nice and I know she needs our help.
“In two weeks we’ll be gone. We’ll be back home in Singapore.” Freya keeps at me, wearing me down.
“I know. I’m not arguing! Let’s just get inside already!” All this chattering is only making things worse. How am I supposed to concentrate?
Freya turns her key in the door of the House in Spitalfields and pushes it open. “In you go, then.”
I duck past her and run for my life.
I bolt down the hallway, swing around the newel post with one hand and run down the stairs to the kitchen and the hearth.
Push it down. Close it off. Block. Breathe. Don’t engage.
I smell the kitchen before I see it. The sweet, smoky smell of the wood fire. Cloves and orange, gingerbread, icing sugar.
Safety.
I burst inside the small room, its warmth embracing me. But then I draw back. I’m not alone.
“Lolli! Welcome!” Tanice, the house curator, stands before the huge dresser, stacked with its rows of mismatched blue-and-white porcelain. Cups hang, a white maid’s cap dangles from a peg, an apron lies abandoned on a chair. Everything used. Worn. Loved. Nothing here is perfect. Nothing is meant to be. Tanice herself is a bright pop of colour with her green-rimmed glasses and fitted fuchsia jacket.
“Hi, Doctor Cole,” I say. Freya has reminded me I should use Tanice’s proper title.
“Oh, Tanice is just fine. Now, you haven’t met my daughter Jada before. She’s been looking forward to you coming.”
I look over to see a girl my age – a mini Tanice, just with cool cornrows and no glasses – sitting at the wide wooden table.
“Hi,” she says, with a smile and a wave.
The fire crackles and pops and I jump. “Hi,” I say. I have to calm down. I am safe here. Safe by the hearth. Safe with Tanice and Jada who are very much alive.
“Lolli!” Freya enters. “Not so fast down those steep stairs, please. Ah, Tanice, Jada! We’re finally here. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“It’s fine.” Tanice comes over to give Freya a hug. “Just fine. We definitely need your help. There’s still quite a bit to do before the weekend.”
“I almost hate to ask you,” Freya continues. “I need to pop next door. I just wanted to say hello first.”
“Of course. I’ll make us a quick pot of tea before we start.”
“Perfect. I won’t be long. You’ll be all right, Lolli?” Freya gives me a look.
“Mmpf.”
Freya takes this as a yes and leaves with a wave. Tanice turns back to the dresser where she’d been sorting through some small metal tins.
