Room 13
Authors: Robert Swindells
Contents
To:
Robert Bates
Edward Benson
James Bentham
Andrea Boyes
Simon Carney
Clair Feltwell
Mark Hall
Craig Hobson
Elizabeth Holland
Louise Horsley
Andrew Howard
David Jenkinson
Samantha Lee
Gavin Ridealgh
John Robinson
Rachael Rowley
Amanda Whiteley
Victoria Winterburn
Who were there too.
Room 13
was inspired by a real school trip to Whitby by Year Two, from Mandale Middle School in Bradford, 1987.
THIS IS WHAT
Fliss dreamed the night before the second year went to Whitby.
She was walking on a road high above the sea. It was dark. She was alone. Waves were breaking at the foot of cliffs to her left, and further out, the moonlight made a silver path on the water.
In front of her was a house. It was a tall house, looming blackly against the sky. There were many windows, all of them dark.
Fliss was afraid. She didn’t want to go inside the house. She didn’t even want to walk past but she had no control over her feet. They seemed to go by themselves, forcing her on.
She came to a gate. It was made of iron, worked into curly patterns. Near the top was a bit that was supposed to be a bird in flight – a seagull perhaps – but the gate had been painted black, and the paint had run and hardened into little stalactites along the bird’s wings, making it look like a bat.
The gate opened by itself, and as she went through Fliss heard a voice that whispered, ‘The Gate of Fate.’ She was drawn along a short pathway and up some stone steps to the front door, which also opened by itself. ‘The Keep of Sleep,’ whispered the voice.
The door closed silently behind her. Moonlight shone coldly through a stained-glass panel into a gloomy hallway. At the far end were stairs that went up into blackness. She didn’t want to climb that stairway but her feet drew her along the hallway and up.
She came to a landing with doors. The stairs took a turn and went on up. As Fliss climbed, it grew colder. There was another landing, more doors and another turn in the stair. Upward to a third landing, then a fourth, and then there were no more stairs. She was at the top of the house. There were four doors, each with a number. 10. 11. 12. 13. As she read the numbers, door thirteen swung inward with a squeal. ‘No!’ she whispered, but it was no use. Her feet carried her over the threshold and the voice hissed, ‘The Room of Doom.’
In the room was a table. On the table stood a long, pale box. Fliss thought she knew what it was. It filled her with horror, and she whimpered helplessly as her feet drew her towards it. When she was close she saw a shape in the box and there
was
a smell like damp earth. When she was very close the voice whispered, ‘The Bed of Dread,’ and then the shape sat up and reached out for her and she screamed. Her screams woke her and she lay damp and trembling in her bed.
Her mother came and switched on the light and looked down at her. ‘What is it, Felicity? I thought I heard you scream.’
Fliss nodded. ‘I had a dream, Mum. A nightmare.’
‘Poor Fliss.’ Her mother sat down on the bed and stroked her hair. ‘It’s all the excitement, I expect – thinking about going away tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘Try to go back to sleep, dear. You’ve a long day ahead of you.’
Fliss clutched her mother’s arm. ‘I don’t want to go, Mum.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to go. I want to drop out of the trip.’
‘But why – not just because of a silly dream, surely?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so, Mum. It was about Whitby, I think. A house by the sea.’
‘A house?’
‘Yes.’ She shivered, remembering. ‘I was in this house and something horrible was after me. Can I drop out, Mum?’
Her mother sighed. ‘I suppose you could, Felicity, if you’re as upset as all that. I could ring Mrs Evans first thing, tell her not to expect you, but you might feel differently in the morning.’ She smiled. ‘Daylight makes us forget our dreams, or else they seem funny – even the scary ones. Let’s decide in the morning, eh?’
Fliss smiled wanly. ‘OK.’ She knew she wouldn’t forget her dream, and that it would never seem funny. But it was all right. She was in control of her feet (she wiggled them under the covers to make sure), and they weren’t going to take her anywhere she didn’t want to go.
IF YOU WERE
a second year there was a different feel about arriving at school that morning. Your friends were standing around in groups by the gate with bags and cases and no uniform, watching the other kids trail down the drive to begin another week of lessons.
You’d be going into school yourself, of course, but only for a few minutes. Only long enough to answer your name and listen to some final instructions from Mr Joyce. There was a coach at the bottom of the drive – a gleaming blue-and-white coach with tinted windows and brilliant chrome, waiting to whisk you beyond the reach of chairs and tables and bells and blackboards and all the sights and sounds and smells of school, to freedom, adventure and the sea. A week. A whole week, tingling with possibilities and bright with promise.
Fliss had changed her mind. Waking to the sun
in
her window and birds in the garden, she had thought about her friends, and the sea, and the things which were waiting there, and her dream of the night before had seemed misty and unreal, which of course it was. Her mother had been pleased, and had resisted the temptation to say ‘I told you so.’
She’d managed to persuade her parents not to come and see her off. Some parents always did, even when their kids were just off on a day trip. Fliss thought it was daft. Talking in loud voices so everyone could hear, saying stuff like ‘Wrap up warm and stay away from the water and don’t forget to phone so we’ll know you arrived in one piece.’ Plonkers.
Lisa Watmough was among the crowd by the gate. She was wearing jeans and talking to a girl called Ellie-May Sunderland. Fliss didn’t like Ellie-May much. Nobody did. She was sulky, spoilt and selfish. But never mind. They were off to the seaside, weren’t they? Fliss joined them, putting her suitcase on the ground next to Lisa’s. ‘Hi, you two. Nice morning.’
‘Yeah.’ They smiled at the sky. ‘I can’t wait to get on that beach,’ said Fliss.
‘I can’t wait to see the hotel,’ said Lisa. ‘Mr Hepworth says it’s called The Crow’s Nest. I hope we’re in the same room, Fliss.’
‘You won’t be,’ said Ellie-May. ‘Our Shelley went last year and she says Mrs Evans splits you up from your friends so you don’t play about at night.’
‘She might not this year. It’s a different hotel. And anyway, me and Fliss wouldn’t play about, would we, Fliss?’
Fliss shook her head and Ellie-May sniggered. ‘Try telling Mrs Evans that.’
Lisa looked at her watch. It was nearly ten to nine. ‘We’d better move,’ she said. ‘The sooner we get the boring bit over, the sooner we’ll be off.’ They picked up their luggage and set off down the drive.
Mr Hepworth was standing by the coach. As the girls approached he called out, ‘Come on you three – hurry up. Leave your cases by the back of the bus and go into the hall.’ The driver was stowing luggage in the boot, watched by a knot of parents. The three girls deposited their cases and hurried into school.
All the second-year kids were lined up in the hall, waiting for Mr Joyce. As Fliss got into line she felt somebody’s breath on her cheek and a voice whispered the word ‘Dracula’ in her ear. She turned round to find Gary Bazzard grinning at her. She scowled. ‘What you on about?’
‘I said Dracula.’
‘I know that, you div – what about him?’
‘Lives in Whitby, doesn’t he?’
‘Does he naff! He’s dead for a start, and when he was alive he lived in Transylvania.’
‘No.’ The boy shook his shaggy head. ‘Whitby. Old Hepworth told us. And he’s not dead neither. He’s undead. He sleeps in a coffin in the daytime and goes out at night.’
Fliss felt a flicker of unease as the boy’s words recalled her dream, but the headmaster appeared at that moment and began to address the assembly. He spoke of rambles, ruins and rock-pools as the sun streamed in through high windows and anticipation shone in the eyes of his listeners, but Fliss gazed at the floor, her lip caught between her teeth.
