Free Castle of Secrets by Amanda Grange Page A

wind. She sped towards it, then passed through the branches and emerged
untouched on the other side. Before her lay a graveyard, with tombs scattered
across it like bones picked clean by the crows. Beside them was a man, wrapped
in a cloak, with a lantern at his side. As she glided closer, she saw that his
face was ghostly. Black shadows filled the hollows, and a sickly pallor marked
the planes. He was shaking with grief, and his shoulders were heaving as
racking sobs filled the air. She flew closer, around and behind him, until she
was looking over his shoulder into the grave.
    Then all of a
sudden she realised his shoulders were shaking, not with grief, but with mirth,
and as she looked past him she saw, to her horror, that the body in the grave
was that of her aunt. She turned and fled, moving rapidly away, carried on the
wind, floating higher and higher as she approached the castle, rising up and
up, until she was on a level with the attic, and she found herself looking
through the windows. There was nothing to be seen, only the ghostly shapes of
furniture cloaked in dust sheets, and a clock ticking, ticking by the wall. And
then a dust sheet moved, and was thrown back, and her aunt’s corpse rose from a
chair.
    Helena awoke with a shock. She
was covered in cold sweat and was trembling all over. It was icy in the room.
She shivered, and her breath formed clouds in front of her. With numb fingers
she reached out for her wrapper and threw it round her shoulders, then climbed
out of bed on shaking legs. She went over to the fire, which had all but gone
out. She raked the ashes, encouraging a small spark, and fed it with small
pieces of paper. She piled on twigs, and when they had caught light she put on
a few pieces of coal. Still shivering, she returned to her bed . . . but she
stopped as she approached it, for there was something under the covers. Her
skin began to crawl. She saw the covers rise and fall. Someone was under there!
    Someone, or
some thing.
    She reached
out and twitched back the cover, and her aunt sat up in the bed, two weeks dead
and laughing  —
    She sat up
with a start.
    Am I really
awake this time? Helena wondered, her heart
hammering in her chest. Or am I still dreaming?
    She looked
around the room, fearing another nightmare vision, but everything was peaceful.
The fire was burning low in the grate, casting a mellow glow over the
furniture. All was as it should be. Her pulse began to slow, and her breathing
became less shallow. She reached for her wrapper, still not convinced that she
was awake. Warily, she threw it round her shoulders and slipped out of bed. She
went over to the fire and knelt down beside it, warming her hands and taking
comfort from the glowing coals. She lit a candle, then sat on the hearth, loath
to go back to bed. She glanced towards it, but there was no strange shape under
the covers. The blanket was still thrown back, revealing the white sheets
beneath.
    She heard the
clock strike in the hall. Six o’clock . It would soon be time for her to rise. She was glad of it.
She had no desire to go back to bed. She waited only for Effie to bring her hot
water and relight the fire before slipping out of her nightgown and, once
washed, putting on her dress.
    Having
completed her toilette, she left the room. The stone corridor was unwelcoming.
Her candle seemed feeble, a puny attempt to light the space. Walls and ceiling
waited in the shadows. The castle seemed a living thing. Old, monstrous, biding
its time, before it claimed another victim.
    She tried to
banish such thoughts, but they would not leave her. She quickened her steps and
the patter of her feet was matched by the patter of her heart.
    Quicker and
quicker, down the stairs, through the hall, into the kitchen, where sanity was
restored. Candles filled the space with light. The hearty fire added its glow.
Mrs Beal was brewing a pot of tea, a beacon of homeliness in the brooding
atmosphere of the castle.
    ‘It’s colder
this