‘I dare you.’ Larry’s long narrow face was alight with spiteful
mischief.
Tom knew he was dangerous, but he also knew that he couldn’t
resist a dare – and that was what Larry was relying on. ‘Me?’ said
Tom, playing for time.
‘Yes. You.’
‘What do I have to do then?’
‘Stand on the banks of the Black Pond until I tell you time’s up.’
‘There?
’
‘Why not?’ Larry’s voice trembled a little in his excitement.
He’s a weirdo, thought Tom. Last year a boy called Alan Prentice
had died when he had been dared to swim the Black Pond, a small
local lake, notorious for the silky strength of its dangerous reeds.
And Tom, like all his friends, was sure that the dare had been set by
Larry Kirk, an insecure loser who loved to wind people up. But there
wasn’t the slightest evidence against Kirk, and the verdict at the
inquest into Alan Prentice’s drowning was Death by Misadventure.
‘I’m not going in the water.’
‘Who asked you to?’ said Larry scornfully. ‘All you have to do is
stay on the bank till I come.’
‘Then I’m free?’
‘If you’re still there! Hey, you going to take the dare or not? Or
shall I tell everyone you’re chicken?’
Tom considered the situation. Larry was quite likely to spread his
refusal around. What a nasty character he was!
‘All right,’ he replied, as casually as possible. ‘I’ll take your dare.’
He paused. ‘But how will everyone know I’ve won?’
‘I’ll be hiding out there with my camcorder,’ said Larry. ‘You won’t
see me – but I’ll be filming you. Then everyone can see how scared
you get.’ He laughed unpleasantly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom. ‘I shan’t be scared.’
But of course he was – and increasingly so as he started to walk
down the woodland path to the Black Pond. It was a winter twilight
and already a hoarfrost was silvering the skeletal foliage. The black
sentinel trees were like scarecrows and the bitter cold made the
frozen grass crackle under Tom’s feet.
Despite his scarf and anorak, thick jeans and warm boots, he was
shivering violently in the utter stillness of the woods.
Occasionally the deep silence was broken by the sharp crack of a
twig, the scurrying of a small animal, the cawing of a rook. Tom
glanced round, hoping that Larry was within filming distance,
wondering if his camcorder would function in such poor conditions.
But it was a comfort to know that even such a dubious character as
Larry was nearby, and Tom was determined not to chicken out as he
hurried down the ever-darkening path that led to the pond.
An owl hooted mournfully and a little breeze, like an icy breath,
darted amongst the stunted bushes and frosty boughs. Then he
heard someone whistling.
The tune was familiar but at first Tom was too terrified to identify it.
Suddenly his mind cleared. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain,
coming round the mountain, coming round the mountain when she
comes.’ Alan Prentice used to whistle the tune in school, whistle it so
often that he almost drove everyone crazy and they had all begged
him to stop. Then he had stopped for good.
Tom froze, listening, his head pounding so much that it hurt. Was
that Larry teasing him, whistling Alan’s tune? It had to be him. It must
be. Then the whistling stopped as abruptly as it had started, and all
he could hear was the sighing of the wind through the frozen
boughs.
He had to walk on. Dimly, in the fast fading light, he could see the
glimmer of black water. The pond. It wouldn’t be long now.
But the winding path seemed endless, the frost still crackling
beneath his feet, his breath in a freezing mist before him.
Then there was more mist, a dense cloud of it, but this was rising
from the Black Pond. Tom walked slowly on, wondering how long
Larry would keep him waiting. Would he play a trick on him? Would
he steal away, camcorder in hand, leaving him to wait all night?
Well, he wouldn’t wait, Tom decided. He’d give him fifteen minutes
– and that was it. What a fool he’d been not to arrange a time earlier.
Now, at last, Tom was on the bank of the pond. There was nothing
growing on the bare earth and the sides were sheer, reaching into
the black water, the darkness of unbearable cold. The mist rose,
chilling him to the bone, the vapour reaching into the woods as if it
was seeking someone – something.
He listened carefully but the silence was like damp cotton wool,
only occasionally broken by the dripping of moisture from the trees
nearest the lake.
Tom looked at his watch and saw to his acute disappointment he
had only been standing on the bank for just over sixty seconds. Was
time freezing over as well?
Was that the whistling again? Or had he just heard a nightjar? It
was hard to identify anything in the woolly atmosphere, and as he
gazed around him the pond seemed to lose shape and dimension
until one minute it was a dark inland sea, the next a small lagoon.
The rustling began as the chill breeze increased, and at first Tom
was convinced that he was listening to a circle of people whispering
around the lake, low and intense and silky. Silky? Could that be the
reeds moving in the breeze, damp and porous?
Something moved on the misty surface. A duck? Moorhen?
Something smaller darted into the reeds.
‘She’ll be coming round the mountain, coming round –’ The
whistling began and ended so quickly that Tom couldn’t be sure he
had actually heard it, but he was shivering so violently that he
couldn’t stop, and clenched his jaw tightly until he bit his tongue.
He stared down at his watch. It was impossible. It must have
stopped. He couldn’t have been here just two minutes – it felt more
like an hour. How could he take another thirteen endless minutes?
Something brown and long flashed past him. A cat? More like a
fox. Then it darted into the undergrowth, swallowed up by a mass of
sheltering brambles.
The stillness increased again until Tom could feel the tension
tighten like a noose around his neck and he felt acutely aware of
being watched. The silky reeds rustled, the hoarfrost glittered and
there was a thin shard of ice around the edge of the lake. Three
minutes. Three minutes and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six
seconds. Yes, he was definitely being watched. Please let it be Larry,
Tom prayed. Please let it be Larry and his camcorder.
Another minute passed like an hour.
Then something broke the surface. For a ghastly moment Tom
thought it was a beckoning hand and then he realized it was a fish.
He breathed again.
The light touch on his shoulder made him scream, a harsh rending
sound in the gathering night, but as he began to whimper a voice
said, ‘Time’s up.’
He turned round in enormous relief, gasping, his mouth opening
and shutting, the dread withdrawing and a warm feeling bubbling up
inside him, as if someone had lit a fire on ice. Tom knew that he had
won his bet and Larry’s camcorder evidence would relay his
achievement to all his fellow pupils and he would be the hero of the
day – the hero of the week.
But when he gazed into the pale, damply luminous eyes of the
figure in front of him, Tom gave a choking cry. It wasn’t Larry. It was
Alan Prentice, dripping wet and blue and swollen, his grey bulbous
lips emitting words, bubbling words that Tom couldn’t understand.
Then they became clear.
‘I’m lonely –’
‘Time’s up,’ came the brusque interruption.
Tom whirled round to see Larry approaching, grinning, his
camcorder in his hands.
When he swung back, Alan Prentice was nowhere to be seen, but
Tom could still feel the light touch on his shoulder. He always would.
Sally stoked up the fire. The room had become very chilly, and
although there was still the reassuring drone of their parents’ voices
next door, most of the storytellers were shivering in their damp
sleeping bags.
She stirred some of the wood; a spark caught and a small bright
flame leapt up hopefully.
‘Summer heat,’ she muttered. ‘That’s something you don’t
associate ghosts with. A friend of mine does though. He told me all
about it, but I still don’t know what to think. Maybe it was a mirage –
like you see in the desert.’
mischief.
Tom knew he was dangerous, but he also knew that he couldn’t
resist a dare – and that was what Larry was relying on. ‘Me?’ said
Tom, playing for time.
‘Yes. You.’
‘What do I have to do then?’
‘Stand on the banks of the Black Pond until I tell you time’s up.’
‘There?
’
‘Why not?’ Larry’s voice trembled a little in his excitement.
He’s a weirdo, thought Tom. Last year a boy called Alan Prentice
had died when he had been dared to swim the Black Pond, a small
local lake, notorious for the silky strength of its dangerous reeds.
And Tom, like all his friends, was sure that the dare had been set by
Larry Kirk, an insecure loser who loved to wind people up. But there
wasn’t the slightest evidence against Kirk, and the verdict at the
inquest into Alan Prentice’s drowning was Death by Misadventure.
‘I’m not going in the water.’
‘Who asked you to?’ said Larry scornfully. ‘All you have to do is
stay on the bank till I come.’
‘Then I’m free?’
‘If you’re still there! Hey, you going to take the dare or not? Or
shall I tell everyone you’re chicken?’
Tom considered the situation. Larry was quite likely to spread his
refusal around. What a nasty character he was!
‘All right,’ he replied, as casually as possible. ‘I’ll take your dare.’
He paused. ‘But how will everyone know I’ve won?’
‘I’ll be hiding out there with my camcorder,’ said Larry. ‘You won’t
see me – but I’ll be filming you. Then everyone can see how scared
you get.’ He laughed unpleasantly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom. ‘I shan’t be scared.’
But of course he was – and increasingly so as he started to walk
down the woodland path to the Black Pond. It was a winter twilight
and already a hoarfrost was silvering the skeletal foliage. The black
sentinel trees were like scarecrows and the bitter cold made the
frozen grass crackle under Tom’s feet.
Despite his scarf and anorak, thick jeans and warm boots, he was
shivering violently in the utter stillness of the woods.
Occasionally the deep silence was broken by the sharp crack of a
twig, the scurrying of a small animal, the cawing of a rook. Tom
glanced round, hoping that Larry was within filming distance,
wondering if his camcorder would function in such poor conditions.
But it was a comfort to know that even such a dubious character as
Larry was nearby, and Tom was determined not to chicken out as he
hurried down the ever-darkening path that led to the pond.
An owl hooted mournfully and a little breeze, like an icy breath,
darted amongst the stunted bushes and frosty boughs. Then he
heard someone whistling.
The tune was familiar but at first Tom was too terrified to identify it.
Suddenly his mind cleared. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain,
coming round the mountain, coming round the mountain when she
comes.’ Alan Prentice used to whistle the tune in school, whistle it so
often that he almost drove everyone crazy and they had all begged
him to stop. Then he had stopped for good.
Tom froze, listening, his head pounding so much that it hurt. Was
that Larry teasing him, whistling Alan’s tune? It had to be him. It must
be. Then the whistling stopped as abruptly as it had started, and all
he could hear was the sighing of the wind through the frozen
boughs.
He had to walk on. Dimly, in the fast fading light, he could see the
glimmer of black water. The pond. It wouldn’t be long now.
But the winding path seemed endless, the frost still crackling
beneath his feet, his breath in a freezing mist before him.
Then there was more mist, a dense cloud of it, but this was rising
from the Black Pond. Tom walked slowly on, wondering how long
Larry would keep him waiting. Would he play a trick on him? Would
he steal away, camcorder in hand, leaving him to wait all night?
Well, he wouldn’t wait, Tom decided. He’d give him fifteen minutes
– and that was it. What a fool he’d been not to arrange a time earlier.
Now, at last, Tom was on the bank of the pond. There was nothing
growing on the bare earth and the sides were sheer, reaching into
the black water, the darkness of unbearable cold. The mist rose,
chilling him to the bone, the vapour reaching into the woods as if it
was seeking someone – something.
He listened carefully but the silence was like damp cotton wool,
only occasionally broken by the dripping of moisture from the trees
nearest the lake.
Tom looked at his watch and saw to his acute disappointment he
had only been standing on the bank for just over sixty seconds. Was
time freezing over as well?
Was that the whistling again? Or had he just heard a nightjar? It
was hard to identify anything in the woolly atmosphere, and as he
gazed around him the pond seemed to lose shape and dimension
until one minute it was a dark inland sea, the next a small lagoon.
The rustling began as the chill breeze increased, and at first Tom
was convinced that he was listening to a circle of people whispering
around the lake, low and intense and silky. Silky? Could that be the
reeds moving in the breeze, damp and porous?
Something moved on the misty surface. A duck? Moorhen?
Something smaller darted into the reeds.
‘She’ll be coming round the mountain, coming round –’ The
whistling began and ended so quickly that Tom couldn’t be sure he
had actually heard it, but he was shivering so violently that he
couldn’t stop, and clenched his jaw tightly until he bit his tongue.
He stared down at his watch. It was impossible. It must have
stopped. He couldn’t have been here just two minutes – it felt more
like an hour. How could he take another thirteen endless minutes?
Something brown and long flashed past him. A cat? More like a
fox. Then it darted into the undergrowth, swallowed up by a mass of
sheltering brambles.
The stillness increased again until Tom could feel the tension
tighten like a noose around his neck and he felt acutely aware of
being watched. The silky reeds rustled, the hoarfrost glittered and
there was a thin shard of ice around the edge of the lake. Three
minutes. Three minutes and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six
seconds. Yes, he was definitely being watched. Please let it be Larry,
Tom prayed. Please let it be Larry and his camcorder.
Another minute passed like an hour.
Then something broke the surface. For a ghastly moment Tom
thought it was a beckoning hand and then he realized it was a fish.
He breathed again.
The light touch on his shoulder made him scream, a harsh rending
sound in the gathering night, but as he began to whimper a voice
said, ‘Time’s up.’
He turned round in enormous relief, gasping, his mouth opening
and shutting, the dread withdrawing and a warm feeling bubbling up
inside him, as if someone had lit a fire on ice. Tom knew that he had
won his bet and Larry’s camcorder evidence would relay his
achievement to all his fellow pupils and he would be the hero of the
day – the hero of the week.
But when he gazed into the pale, damply luminous eyes of the
figure in front of him, Tom gave a choking cry. It wasn’t Larry. It was
Alan Prentice, dripping wet and blue and swollen, his grey bulbous
lips emitting words, bubbling words that Tom couldn’t understand.
Then they became clear.
‘I’m lonely –’
‘Time’s up,’ came the brusque interruption.
Tom whirled round to see Larry approaching, grinning, his
camcorder in his hands.
When he swung back, Alan Prentice was nowhere to be seen, but
Tom could still feel the light touch on his shoulder. He always would.
Sally stoked up the fire. The room had become very chilly, and
although there was still the reassuring drone of their parents’ voices
next door, most of the storytellers were shivering in their damp
sleeping bags.
She stirred some of the wood; a spark caught and a small bright
flame leapt up hopefully.
‘Summer heat,’ she muttered. ‘That’s something you don’t
associate ghosts with. A friend of mine does though. He told me all
about it, but I still don’t know what to think. Maybe it was a mirage –
like you see in the desert.’
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