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Back The Midnight Man Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Contents
  3. Copyright
  4. Praise for Caroline Mitchell
  5. Also by Caroline Mitchell
  6. Dedication
  7. Epigraph
  8. Prologue
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. Epilogue
  68. Acknowledgements
  69. About Caroline Mitchell
  70. About Embla Books

Libby remained silent. They had two hours to go before they could leave. She wasn’t going to chicken out first.

‘Where’s Angelica?’

‘We lost her.’ Bethany looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

‘Maybe she gave up playing and went home,’ Isobel added.

‘You’re kidding,’ Jahmelia’s voice echoed in wonderment. ‘I didn’t see her leave.’

‘Must have been when we were in the kitchen.’ Libby’s grip on her candle tightened. If she could make it through the next couple of hours, then she could lord this over Angelica for years. She smiled. There would be no more smart remarks about being a loser, or taunting of Jahmelia. Angelica would answer to her.

‘What are we doing? Are we going home?’ Jahmelia said hopefully. All eyes were on Libby as they awaited a response. She licked the dryness from her lips. Set her jaw firm.

‘Make a circle with some salt. We’ll sit back-to-back.’ She gazed at the pallid faces before her. ‘We came here to play a game. I’m not leaving until we win.’

3

Friday, 1st November 2019

Maggie rubbed her arms as she slid out of bed. It wasn’t the cold which had awoken her, nor the rattle of the pipes in the walls. It was instinct. She grabbed her cardigan off the corner of the metal bedstead. If fear had a smell, she would reek of it right now. Standing at her bedroom door, she tried to muster up enough courage to leave her room. Her fingers tightened around the cold metal door-knob, and she willed herself to turn it. But it was the memory which bloomed that held her prisoner, still as fresh and painful as when it happened three years ago. Her four-year-old son, Elliott, pale in the moonlight, his eyes full dark.

‘I don’t like Auntie Emily’s plait,’ he’d said, sitting bolt upright in bed. His voice had been so flat and emotionless that it had taken precious seconds to process his words.

‘Sorry, love? What was that?’ she’d said, fetching an extra blanket as a chill descended in the room. She must have misheard. Her sister’s hair was long, but she always wore it loose.

‘The plait,’ he’d said again. ‘I don’t like it. It makes her face all funny.’

Back then, Maggie was yet to familiarise herself with the night terrors that would take hold. Elliott’s eyes slipped shut, before rolling open again. Only this time, his gaze was focused on her. An uncomfortable creeping sensation raised goosebumps on her skin.

‘You’re dreaming,’ she’d said, guiding him back to his pillow. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Make her take it off,’ Elliott had insisted, placing his hands around his neck. His words were raspy, as if he were being choked.