I peered out of the room. There was no sign of anyone in the hall. No shadows creeping up the stairs. All was silent and still.
Slowly, with the paperweight raised, I left Darlene’s room. I kept my back to the wall and crept sideways along the hall, back towards the top of the stairs and Greg’s bedroom.
I looked down the stairs. Was someone down there? Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe it was the wind, or the little kids outside. Perhaps David had come back. I stood still, barely breathing, feeling my heart thump inside me.
The noise came from behind me and I whirled round. It sounded like somebody trying to speak. A noise deep in someone’s throat.
I rushed into Greg’s room and saw his eyelids flicker.
He was still alive!
I crouched beside him. ‘Greg?’
His eyes flickered again.
‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ I said, scrambling to get my phone out of my pocket. ‘I’ll tell them to hurry.’
‘I tried,’ he said.
‘To call an ambulance?’
He gave his head only the tiniest shake, but I could see his frustration. His eyes were still closed but his lips were moving, just, like he was trying to say more. I spotted a glass of water beside the bed and leapt up to grab it. I brought it to his mouth and let a little trickle between his parted lips. It dribbled down his chin and he made a horrible gasping noise.
‘I tried my best,’ he said.
Was he talking about Buddy and Darlene? His eyelids moved again and he tried to open them, squinting like the light hurt him.
‘Abigail?’ he said.
‘It’s Tom,’ I said. ‘Tom Anderson. Greg, do you know where Frankie is? Where Buddy and Darlene might have taken her?’
His breathing was slow, ragged. Somehow he had survived so far. Perhaps his flesh had protected his organs to an extent, but he had lost so much blood it was a miracle he was still alive.
‘This . . . my . . .’
I leaned closer.
‘My punishment,’ he said. ‘What . . . we did.’ He tried to focus on me again. ‘Abigail?’
‘Greg,’ I said. ‘Please. Can you hear me? Where is the cabin? The secret cabin?’
Blood bubbled from between his lips, swelling and popping.
‘Greg?’
‘My name . . . my name is Goat.’
‘Greg. Please. The secret cabin. Where is it?’
He tried again to open his eyes, squinting at me.
‘Carl?’
Carl? Did he think I was the archery teacher?
‘You,’ Greg said, attempting to lift his hand, like he wanted to point a finger at me. ‘Your fault.’
I rocked back on my heels. Carl? Why had he . . . ?
It dawned on me.
‘Is Carl Crow?’ I asked, leaning closer. ‘Greg? Where is the cabin? Please. I need to find Frankie.’
He blinked, apparently realising who I was.
‘The cabin,’ I urged. ‘Where is it?’
But he didn’t want to tell me. He wanted to confess. He beckoned for me to move closer, and whispered into my ear, gasping, every word causing him pain. And he told me what he’d done. What they’d done. Him and Nikki and Carl.
When he’d finished, he lay there, silent, his skin chalky and damp with sweat. But he seemed lighter, unburdened of the story he’d kept secret for twenty years. He was ready to die.
‘Greg,’ I said. ‘Please. Tell me where to find the cabin.’
The corners of his mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. ‘The wind,’ he said, so quietly the words were only just audible. ‘Follow . . .’
He fell silent.
‘Greg?’
I grabbed his wrist, felt for a pulse.
He was gone.
Chapter 42
When Carl made his way home after coming up with his plan – after the second time he’d seen the teachers – he was given evidence that the Hollows were on his side. Something that showed him the dark power of this place; its desire to protect itself and to reward him. Because there, lying on the path at his feet, was a piece of cloth. One that Carl – or Crow, as he had thought of himself since Abigail had given him that name – recognised. Using a stick to touch it, he picked it up and examined it.
It was Everett Miller’s bandana.
Carl had liked Everett Miller until recently. On the couple of occasions he’d encountered him, Everett had been nice. There was that time at Big Al’s Records when Everett had recommended a couple of albums to him, expanding his horizons beyond Metallica and Korn. He’d told him to listen to Wolfspear, pointing out how he had their horned-god logo painted on the back of his leather jacket.