Authors: Emerald Fennell
Penny held up a threatening finger. ‘Don’t laugh!’ she cried before Arthur even had a chance to respond. ‘I know it’s ridiculous! I’m changing my name the moment I turn eighteen. I’m thinking of something dark and mysterious, like Storm.’
‘I don’t think you’re much of a Storm, Pen,’ George replied. ‘A Drizzle, maybe.’
‘I hate you,’ Penny grumbled as she stuffed some toast into her mouth.
As she glared at George, a rather small boy, with white blond hair and little rectangular glasses, appeared beside them. George leapt up and gave him a hug.
‘All right, Jake,’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Jake pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Mum tried to stop me coming back – she said “boarding schools are incubators of disease”. I had to catch the train first thing this morning when she was asleep.’
‘Still mad then?’ George said sagely.
‘Still mentally ill, yes,’ Jake corrected with a sigh. He was clearly used to George’s tactlessness.
‘Arthur, this is Jake Tuttle,’ George said. ‘If you ever need to copy someone’s homework, Jake is your man.’
Jake beamed in spite of himself, and took Arthur’s hand warmly.
The group gossiped for a while, trading summer stories and moaning about their parents and siblings, until Penny steered the conversation on to Tristan Maynard and his strange appearance the night before.
‘It was really weird,’ Arthur said.
‘It gets weirder,’ Penny whispered, leaning in towards her friends. ‘Mum knows Tristan’s mother, and I just happened to accidentally eavesdrop on one of their conversations last weekend.’
‘What did you hear?’ George asked, his eyes lighting up.
‘Well, Tristan used to have this imaginary friend. It was a little boy called Charlie, who Tristan talked to for years and insisted was totally real. I remember going to play there when we were little and it was always “Charlie says this, Charlie says that”.’
‘That’s not that crazy, is it?’ Arthur asked. ‘Loads of kids have imaginary friends.’
‘Mine was called Stripes,’ George said matter-of-factly. ‘He was a clown with a green bowler hat.’
The group stared at him, amused.
‘What?’ he said defensively.
‘Anyway,’ Penny pushed on, ‘this one was different. Tristan didn’t grow out of having an imaginary friend, even years after everyone else did. The whole thing became really strange and Charlie was always “making” Tristan do all sorts of awful things.’
‘Like what?’ Arthur asked.
‘When Tristan was eleven he drowned the neighbour’s dog because “Charlie told him to”.’
‘That’s horrible,’ Jake said.
‘Yeah. So, obviously Tristan’s mum was really worried and sent him to therapy and everything. Then one day, a few months before Tristan came here, Charlie just went away.’
‘He grew up.’ Arthur shrugged.
‘You’d have thought so. But just before Tristan had that breakdown last term, Charlie came back.’
There was silence for a moment as the group digested this.
‘All Tristan said, over and over, when they took him away to the hospital, was “Charlie’s still there, Charlie’s still there”,’ said Penny.
‘What?’ George asked. ‘Charlie’s still where?’
‘I don’t know. Here, I guess. At Shiverton.’
Jake shuddered. ‘Creepy.’
‘That would explain the scene in assembly,’ Arthur said. ‘I guess no one would want their maniacal imaginary friend let loose on all their mates.’
‘Speak for yourself! Stripes wouldn’t hurt a fly!’ George said. ‘Well, actually, he couldn’t – he didn’t have any arms.’
Penny giggled. ‘George,’ she sighed, ‘you might very well be a psychopath!’
Arthur stood in an empty hallway, frantically consulting the small map on his school almanac. The bell had just gone and he had absolutely no idea where the history department was. From the silence in the building, it seemed lessons had already started.
He heard some footsteps behind him and turned to ask for directions. Walking towards him was Amber, the beautiful girl he had nearly knocked over the night before.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Late again?’ she asked.
Arthur blushed. ‘Er . . . yup,’ he stammered. ‘I’m looking for Doctor Toynbee’s classroom.’
Amber sighed. ‘Well, I guess I can help you, just this once.’
She leaned in closer to point out the room on his map, and Arthur caught the smell of lavender, with a note of wet earth, in her hair.
‘Did you get that?’ Amber asked, looking at him as though he were an imbecile. She repeated her instructions.
Arthur realised he was staring. ‘Thanks so much,’ he said, no longer concerned that he was late.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Amber replied, lowering her eyes flirtatiously. ‘See you around.’
Arthur watched as she sauntered off, and promised himself that he wouldn’t behave like such an idiot the next time he saw her.
That evening, in the Garnons common room, George stared at Arthur with barely concealed delight.
‘Amber Crighton,’ George said. ‘
The
Amber Crighton?’
‘I guess.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘I don’t know her last name.’
‘It must be,’ George said dreamily.
‘I’m going to ask her out,’ Arthur said decisively.
‘Mate,’ George laughed. ‘I admire your confidence, I do. But you have more of a chance with Professor Long-Pitt. Amber’s the most popular girl in school. And she’s going out with Dan Forge, or at least she was. Either way you do
not
want to get involved there.’
Arthur’s heart sank. ‘Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s another Amber,’ he said hopefully.
‘Nice try,’ George sighed. ‘But there’s only one Amber, and I hate to say it, but she’s out of our league.’
‘Maybe she’s out of
your
league.’ Arthur grinned.
‘Fighting talk.’ George slapped Arthur on the back. ‘I wish you luck!’
Toynbee entered the common room, his eyes settling on Arthur. ‘Hello there, Bannister,’ he said jovially. ‘How was your first day?’
‘Great, thank you, sir,’ Arthur replied.
‘Good, good. You didn’t find my lesson too dreary?’
‘Not at all,’ Arthur insisted.
Toynbee chuckled.
‘Arthur’s already a hit with the ladies, sir,’ George piped in.
Toynbee raised an amused eyebrow at a furiously blushing Arthur. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can teach young Grant here the secrets of your success.’
‘Sir!’ George protested, as Arthur snorted.
Toynbee abruptly looked out of the window at the dark grounds, as though he had seen something pass by. George and Arthur followed his gaze, but saw nothing.
‘Arthur,’ Toynbee said, suddenly grave, ‘you’ve not noticed anything strange today, have you?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’ Arthur asked, puzzled.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Toynbee said, a hint of relief in his voice. ‘No doubt Grant has been filling your head with ghastly tales. I just wanted to make sure none of it has alarmed you.’
‘If I get chased around the maze by a headless horseman, you’ll be the first to know, sir.’
‘Indeed,’ Toynbee said quietly.
Arthur and George exchanged a quizzical look.
‘Right,’ Toynbee cried, snapping out of his reverie. ‘I’d better be off. I have to embark on marking the first years’ take on the Cuban Missile Crisis.’ He rolled his eyes in a dramatic ‘God help me’ gesture, and tootled off with a renewed spring in his step.
‘What was going on there?’ Arthur asked, nodding towards the empty window.
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ George shrugged, dunking a biscuit into his tea. ‘Toynbee’s a bit bonkers sometimes.’ He munched on his biscuit thoughtfully. ‘He jokes about it, but he’s every bit as obsessed with Shiverton’s ghosts as I am.’
At two thirty in the morning George was dreaming about winning the house cricket cup. In his dream, he held the cup aloft as a gaggle of beautiful girls fought to stand beside him. The cup was cold on his palms, and the sun shone on his face as schoolmates and a bevy of supermodels congratulated him on his single-handed win. Suddenly, a wind began to blow, and the sun disappeared behind the clouds. The group of well-wishers and fans melted away, until George was standing alone on the steps of the cricket pavilion. In the distance, at the other end of the cricket field, he noticed a lone figure. It was just too far away for George to make out its identity, but he knew that whoever it was, it was looking at him. The figure started to move towards him. George tried to walk to the safety of the pavilion, but found himself completely immobile, as though his bones had been replaced with lead.
The wind whipped George’s face as he squinted to see what thing it was that was quickly making its way across the field. The nearby woods began to creak and whine, but the noise seemed metallic, and not at all natural.
George opened one eye, the sounds from his nightmare still ringing in his ears. He sat up when he realised that the creaking hadn’t been in his imagination: it was in his room. Resisting the impulse to throw himself back under his duvet, George slowly turned his head towards the corner of the room.
Someone was sitting in his grandfather’s rocking chair.
It was too dark to see who sat there, rocking and watching him.
‘Hello,’ George rasped. ‘Who’s there?’
There was no reply, only the sound of the wood grinding against the floor as the chair moved back and forth.
‘Who’s there?’ George repeated, his voice catching in his throat like cat’s claws.
Outside the clouds skidded past the moon, illuminating George’s room with silver light for just a moment, but it was long enough for George to see a tangle of bright, copper hair, a cobwebbed bowler hat and a hunched, armless torso.
The figure smiled a thin, red grin and said, in a high whisper, ‘Hello, friend.’
Arthur was demolishing his full English breakfast in the dining hall and talking to Jake, when George weaved his way through the tables towards them, looking dazed and a little shaky.
‘All right, mate?’ Arthur asked as George slumped on to the bench beside him. ‘You look rough.’
‘I feel it,’ George groaned.
‘What’s up?’ Jake asked, surprised. George was always cheerful and bouncy, even at breakfast.
‘I think our conversation yesterday, the one about the imaginary friends, must have freaked me out,’ George said, unable to look them in the eye.
‘Why?’ Arthur asked.
‘Because last night I think I saw . . .’ George went a little green and whispered, ‘Stripes.’
His friends were silent for a moment, then let out a simultaneous hoot of laughter.
‘Guys,’ George said seriously, ‘I’m not kidding.’
‘Stripes!’ Jake giggled.
‘I’m serious,’ George continued. ‘Stripes was in my room in my grandfather’s rocking chair.’
George’s friends could tell from the stricken look on his face that he wasn’t joking, and their laughter subsided. Arthur glanced nervously at Jake.
‘It was probably just a nightmare,’ Jake said.
‘I thought so too at first,’ George replied quietly. ‘But it was so vivid I’m certain I was awake. I know I talk about Shiverton being filled with ghosts and ghouls and all that, but have I ever been genuinely freaked out by anything?’
Jake shook his head.
‘Exactly! I swear to you, last night wasn’t a dream. It was . . .’ George shuddered.
‘What happened?’ Arthur asked, intrigued and rather unnerved himself.
George thought for a moment. ‘The thing is, although he was Stripes, he sort of . . . wasn’t. There was something different about him, something not quite right.’
‘Maybe you just don’t remember him properly,’ Jake added.
‘Maybe. But I was never scared of Stripes, and last night I was scared. Really scared.’
‘So what was different about him then?’ Arthur asked.
George squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon the memory of the night before. ‘Stripes’s voice. It wasn’t like his voice. There was something . . . something vile about it. He sort of crouched over my bed. His breath stank of something sweet, like rotten flowers, and he whispered . . .’ George paused.
‘What?’ Arthur asked. ‘What?’
George shook his head and threw his hands up. ‘I can’t remember.’
The group jumped as a bedraggled Penny appeared out of nowhere and dumped her satchel on the table next to them.
‘Well, I’ve just had the worst night’s sleep ever!’ she announced. ‘That conversation we had about Tristan must have really got to me. I had a dream that my imaginary friend Lola was in my room!’
The boys looked at each other uneasily as Penny went on, speaking through a croissant she had grabbed from Jake’s plate.
‘It was terrifying. It was Lola, but it sort of . . . wasn’t. She was all dusty and grey, like she’d been left in an attic for years. And the way she looked at me . . .’ Penny shivered involuntarily. ‘The worst thing was,’ she continued, leaning in closer to her friends, ‘when I woke up I was standing on my window ledge, with the window wide open, like I was about to jump. Can you imagine how dangerous that is? I’ve never sleepwalked before. I could have killed myself!’