The House of a Hundred Whispers

the quilt to cover her shoulders. Out here on the moor, at night, the darkness was total, so they had left a light on in the hallway downstairs, in case any of them needed to get up to visit the bathroom. All she could hear was Rob’s steady breathing, the weary ticking of the longcase clock, and the soft, sibilant sound of the wind outside, like an old man whistling between his teeth.
She tried to imagine where Timmy was now, and how he was keeping himself warm and dry. He had always liked to put up makeshift shelters at the end of the garden, under the hedge. It was usually one of Rob’s raincoats draped over a framework of sticks and the handles of his wheelbarrow. He would sit there, cross-legged, while it was raining, singing songs he had made up himself, like ‘The Sheep Goes Beep’. She desperately hoped he had managed to build himself some kind of shelter out on the moors, although by now he must be weak with hunger, and thirsty, too, unless he had drunk water from a leat.
Dear God in heaven, she prayed, under her breath. Please protect my Timmy wherever he is, and bring him back to us safe and unharmed.
Her eyes closed and she was almost asleep when she thought she could faintly hear a child crying. She opened her eyes and listened. A whole minute went by without her hearing it again. Rob stirred and made a wuffling noise, but then he continued to breathe normally. No – she must have been thinking so intently about Timmy that she had dreamed it as she was dropping off. She closed her eyes again. She had never felt so tired in her entire life. She couldn’t imagine the grief of losing a child forever. The funeral. The small white coffin.
Then she heard the child crying again. It was so muffled and indistinct that she couldn’t be entirely sure it wasn’t a fox yelping somewhere outside, or one of the bedroom doors creaking in the draught. Dartmoor was the highest upland in the country, so it was almost always windy. She sat up, holding her breath. Another minute went by. Then – yes, she heard it again. What if it was Timmy, and he was stuck somewhere in the house in some cupboard or chimney or cranny where they hadn’t been able to find him?
She folded back the quilt and climbed out of bed, trying to disturb Rob as little as possible. She tiptoed to the bedroom door and eased it open. The corridor outside was dark, except for the faint glow of light from the lamp in the hallway, which was enough for Vicky to see that there was nobody out there.
She waited, and then she heard it again. It sounded as if it were coming from the side corridor that led to the stained-glass window of Old Dewer. She crept along to the landing, stopped, and listened again. It was not crying so much as a repetitive and hopeless plea for help, in the same way that children in hospital call out endlessly for their mummies, even though they know it might be hours before they come to visit them. But it was definitely a child, and not a fox, or an owl. She couldn’t be sure that it was Timmy, but what other children had come to Allhallows Hall lately?
Holding her breath again, she made her way down the corridor to the stained-glass window. In the dark, the design on the window appeared to have subtly altered, as if the hounds were cowering down low, and Old Dewer himself was looking at her over his shoulder with one gleaming eye. Outside, it was still pitch black and there was no light shining through the coloured glass, so that it was difficult to tell for sure.
Although it sounded so faint and faraway, the child’s voice seemed to be coming from the end bedroom, the one in which Rob and Martin had found nothing but six spare chairs and a wine table crowded with cobwebby candlesticks. She opened the door and strained her eyes to see if there was anybody inside, but it was too dark, and so she reached around for the light switch.
‘Timmy? Are you in there?’ she called out, but quietly.
She waited, but there was no answer, and the crying had stopped.
‘Timmy?’
She took a step into the bedroom, but as she did so she heard a soft rushing noise, like the wind rising, and the wine table rocked as if somebody had knocked into it. Three of the candlesticks toppled over and dropped onto the carpet, and then Vicky gasped in shock as what felt like two invisible hands were shoved into her chest to push her violently backwards into the corridor. She lost her balance and her shoulder struck the mahogany dado behind her before she sprawled onto the floor.
She looked up to see who had pushed her, but instantly the light in the bedroom was switched off and the door slammed shut.
She climbed to her feet and stood in front of the door, trembling and rubbing her shoulder. She was convinced that it had been a man who had knocked over the candlesticks and pushed her, but how could she not have seen him?
Vicky stayed where she was for a few seconds, listening for the child, but all she could hear now was the wind, and the first few patters of rain against the stained-glass window. She didn’t dare to open the bedroom door again. Her shoulder was aching and she felt as if her breasts were bruised.
She walked back quickly to her own bedroom, switched on Rob’s bedside lamp and sat down on the bed next to him. She shook his arm and said, ‘Rob – Rob – wake up! Please, Rob, wake up!’
Rob stirred and opened his eyes. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Then he propped himself up on his elbow and said, ‘Have they