Free Kiera Hudson & The Creeping Men by Tim O'Rourke

were only ever to share an employer and employee relationship. That would be good enough – or at least I had to keep believing that.
    Steering my car away from the main avenue, I found a dirt track and drove my car down it. The brambles and thorns scraped down both sides of my car. I doubted a few more scratches would matter very much. I followed the line of the wall that I caught regular glimpses of through the undergrowth. Sensing that I was at the rear of the property and couldn’t be seen from the main building, I stopped my car. Easing open the door, I got out, my clothes and hair snagging on branches and twigs that jutted from the bushes.
    Reaching the wall, I looked up. It towered over me like some fortress. I reached up and took hold of a piece of stone that jutted from it. Hoisting myself up, I looked for any kind of foothold. I wished for the second time since being pushed that my claws would spring from my fingers, or better still, my wings from my back so I could flutter over the wall and down the other side. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen – if ever – and I was fast learning that each time I got pushed I was faced with a whole new set of challenges I would have to overcome.
    So drawing a deep breath, I started to climb. I pulled myself up, the surface rough and uneven against me. I heard my jacket tear and three times I lost my footing, scraping the toes of my trainers against the wall. With my fingers aching and calf muscles feeling as if they were on fire, I reached the top of the wall. Pulling myself up onto my elbows, I peered and looked at what lay on the other side. As Locke had described, I could see a large wood that stretched away for as far as I could see. Dragging myself up, I swung my legs over the wall so that I was crouched on top. I looked for any signs of life in both directions. Believing that I was alone and unseen, I scrambled over the top of the wall, dropping down the other side. I landed on my arse with a bone-rattling thump. I was careful not to cry out, covering my mouth with both hands. I sat and listened to any noise other than my own racing heart. When I was sure that no one was close by, I got to my feet, brushing dead leaves and broken twigs from the seat of my jeans. I made my way into the wood.
    It was dark inside, and as I walked amongst the ancient tree trunks, I couldn’t help but feel a little claustrophobic. The air was cool, but oddly a little clammy, too. Shafts of rising sunlight streamed through the branches overhead as if lighting my way in places. I’d gone far enough into the woods that when I looked back, I could no longer see the wall I had climbed over. Facing front again, I made my way deeper into the wood.
    I was mindful that Ms. Locke had said she’d seen some kind of giant hound in the grounds, but I heard no howl or bark of any kind. And as I went further into the woods, the only other sound that grew ever louder was that of running water. I followed it until I came across a stream. It frothed and bubbled as it cut its way through the wood. It looked similar to the stream I had seen in my dream. The stream where Jack had sat cooling his long scrawny feet in the water. But I couldn’t be sure if it was the same one. Why would it be? It made sense that I would conjure such a thing while asleep as Ms. Locke had mentioned it during her account of the odd happenings at Bastille Hall. The idea of a stream and a wood had simply dwelt on my mind – filtered into my sleep. That was all.
    I followed the stream as it wound its way through the wood. I’d gone a little way further, when through the trees I could see Bastille Hall. It loomed in the distance, the stone once white now grey. The upper levels were speckled with moss and creeper vines. There was a long snaking gravel path that led to the main entrance. The double front doors were huge and made of a blonde oak. Stone steps led up to them. The house wasn’t as vast as Hallowed Manor, but it was