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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

He chewed his food mechanically as bits of the dream that wasn’t a dream hung around. He couldn’t find the right name for it. Nightmare, night stories … none of them fit. It was something from the other place. He imagined the other place being behind tracing paper, like the pages he’d got to trace and draw with in school: a thin sheet which kept that world from this. Most people couldn’t see through it, but Elliott saw too much. He rested his hand over his eyelid as it began to twitch. It felt like an insect trapped beneath his skin. This was his punishment for seeing the world from behind someone else’s eyes. Some thing’s eyes. Blackhall Manor. The name gave him goosebumps all over. It was coming for him. It was sending the Midnight Man. His eyes flicked to his father’s medal on the table next to his plate. He wasn’t brave like his daddy. If he was brave he wouldn’t have wet the bed.

‘You OK, hun?’ his mother said, resting her knife and fork. Elliott opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell her. For her to take him in her arms and hug the scary stuff away. But hugs could not stop them, and his mummy was sad enough. ‘I’m fine.’ Elliott gave her a watery smile before sticking his fork in his sausage and taking a bite.

16

Saturday, 2nd November 2019

Sitting at her kitchen table, Sarah stared at the letter which she’d found beneath the cat flap in the back door last night. Weary from lack of sleep, she sat hunched over the letter, her concentration broken by a long miaow. Sherlock’s tail flapped from left to right as he demonstrated his disapproval of having to wait for his breakfast.

‘Sorry, mate,’ she said, fetching some cooked chicken breast from the fridge. ‘We need to get you on a healthy diet, eh? No more pizzas, no more greasy chicken. Cat food for you, and Slimming World for me.’ She caught sight of herself in the mirror; a study of loneliness as her words bounced around the walls of her kitchen. Another furtive glance at the letter. Her stomach clenched at the sight of it. It’s just hate mail, she told herself. As worthless as the paper it’s written on.

She plopped the chicken in Sherlock’s bowl and topped up his water. At least the kitchen smelled clean. One cat was enough for anyone, God only knew how Elsie coped with six.