thirteen days of midnight chapter sampler

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13A S F N H



LEO HUNT

13DAYS OF MIDNIGHT



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are eitherproducts of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 by Leo Hunt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means,

raphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping,and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First U.S. edition 2015

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2015934259ISBN 978-0-7636-7865-4

15 16 17 18 19 20 BVG 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in Berryville, VA, U.S.A.

This book was typeset in Palatino.

Candlewick Press99 Dover Street

Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

visit us at www.candlewick.com



For my grandparents



T e rst t ing t at appens is I unsea an enve ope an

Da ’s eat a s out onto t e rea ast ta e. I a waysoug t I’ earn a out it rom t e papers rst, or t at

maybe news like this would be delivered by an angel,

holding out a gilded scroll, its perfect face scribbled with

sorrow. Instead I’m sitting with bed head, wearing inside-

out pajamas, rea ing a etter printe in or inary ac

n on w ite o ce paper. T e etter ea rea s Ber ey &

Co., an t ey’ve sent a s ort message in orming me o is

eat . I’m requeste at a meeting wit is so icitor t is

afternoon, “with regard to my inheritance.”

There’s no mention of Mum, which is strange. It’s

addressed only to me. I’m not really sure what to feel. I

was a way t roug a ow o cerea w en I opene t e



at oo s i e wet rown san . I pic up t e remains

o my rea ast an move over to t e sin . Outsi e, in

he back garden, Ham whimpers and bats at the door. Iput him outside and forgot; he must be soaked by now.

Leaving my bowl in the sink, I cross the kitchen to let him

n. I get t e oor open, an e s oots past me i e a og

possesse , strea ing wet prints across t e ti es.

I aven’t seen Da , except on te evision, since I was

six. He isn’t — wasn’t — exact y famous amous, ut most

people would probably recognize him. His face comes up

a lot if you go rooting through the discount- books bins

n supermarkets, or watch late-night reruns of his vari-

ous paranorma s ows. I’ get a car on my irt ay up

unti a ew years ago, an since t en not even t at. I t inI cou ’ve spo en to im on t e p one i I’ ma e a ig

e ort to — may e e t ots o messages at is o ce — ut I

never tried. He made it clear that he didn’t want much to

do with us. I always assumed we’d have some awkward

eunion when I was older, but I guess now I won’t even

et t at. I oo out at t e gar en, autumn app es anginge on t e tree. Past t e trees t ere’s a rystone wa , an

en grass an s eep. T e s y is gray, t e c ou s sagging

an out o s ape.

I hear Mum on the stairs, and before I really think

about what I’m doing, I’ve rushed back across the kitchen

and hidden the solicitor’s letter in my pocket. Of course



mout : Da ’s ea . Two sma wor s, ut I on’t say it.

I stan preten ing to examine my orange juice as s e

comes in, dressed in the poncho-type thing she wearsevery morning, and starts clattering around looking for

reakfast. Does she know already? It doesn’t seem like

t. S e are y ea t wit t eir separation; i s e new e

was ea , I ou t s e’ e stan ing uprig t. I’m wor-

ie a out ow s e’ an e t is. He was amous enoug

at it’ e in t e news somew ere. S e’s going to n

out. I really ought to tell her now.

“Morning,” I say to Mum, as if nothing unusual were

happening.

“Morning, ove,” s e says, turning a aroun , giving

me a s eepy grin.Mum crac s an egg on t e si e o t e pan. S e’s c ear y

no onger in a vegan p ase. T e time to spea seems to

pass, as I stand doing nothing. Ham reappears, claws

clicking on the tiles with every step he takes. He’s a hunt-

ng dog, a compressed spring of gray fur and sinew. His

snout is ong an rega , ut is ea is toppe y a crowno pa e u , w ic remin s me o a new orn c ic en.

He presses is amp ea against my an . Despite a

e crimes I’ve committe against im — t e vet visits

and worming tablets and forced walks in the rain — Ham

elieves I’m a good person. He grumbles as I knead his

shoulders.



einvention, so I t in er actua irt certi cate mig t

say somet ing i erent. S e’s not c ose wit er parents.

Mum is tall and wiry, with blond hair like fraying rope. Ihink the best way to explain her is to say that she doesn’t

do a lot, or more that she starts things and then doesn’t fin-

s t em, w et er t at’s a etter or a oo or a mea or er

ong-running p an to set up a crysta s op. S e’s intereste

n t e restorative power o crysta s. S e’s a so intereste

n tarot car s, numero ogy, past- i e regression, ancient

astronaut theories, Reiki, and books by people who’ve met

angels or changed their lives through positive thinking —

the perfect partner for a professional ghost expert like Dad.

Or s ou ’ve een, at east. Mum’s ess intereste in get-

ing a jo or c eaning t e ouse or going to parent-teac ercon erences. I t in Da must ave an e t e money

si e o t ings, espite t e sp it, so on’t go t in ing I’ve

had it rough: power cut off or empty boxes at Christmas

or anything like that. We’re good customers at the organic

food shops, and since the start of high school, I’ve always

a t e rig t snea ers, t e proper aircut, c ot es witran names, w ic is important i I want to eep anging

aroun wit Kir an Mar an t e rest o t em. I on’t

now w at’s going to appen a out money now t at

Da ’s gone. I notice Mum’s oo ing out t e win ow wit

a glazed expression, which makes me think she’s already

had one of her pain pills.



See, Mum as t ese t ings ca e c uster ea ac es.

I ee a enoug w en I ave a norma , stan ar -issue

headache, like someone’s wrapping a rope around myskull, but cluster headaches are the premier league of

headaches. Worse than a migraine. They’re so bad it’s like

someone is riving a re - ot spi e into your ace, accor -

ng to t e pamp ets t ey give ami y mem ers to e p us

un erstan t e con ition. W en Mum as an attac going

on, s e as to retreat to er e room wit t e curtains

firmly drawn and stay in there for days and days with a

lindfold over her eyes and ice on her forehead.

So that’s how things are with Mum. She’s not that bad,

o e onest. We get a ong pretty we ecause s e’s rea y

not t at intereste in ow I o at sc oo or w o my rien sare an ow ong I stay out wit t em, w ic is w at my

rien s g t wit t eir parents a out. S e’s weir , ut at

east she doesn’t drink on weeknights like Kirk’s mother

and doesn’t have a rictus smile and flowchart of polite

questions like Mark’s, who I think is a maternal android

at is a constructe rom a mai -or er it.“Bit o a ue ay,” Mum says. T ere’s not ing a out

e ay t at cou remote y e escri e as ue, ut t e

comment con rms s e’s not ear t e news. I ave no

ea ow to ring it up.

“Yeah,” I say, pummeling Ham’s shoulders and

ack. I’ve realized I’ll have to skip school today. I’m



a rea y very ate t an s to t e etter, not t at Mum’s

notice . My meeting wit Da ’s so icitor is in t e ear y

afternoon, but the buses to the city take the long route,and it’s easier to just not go to school rather than try to

sneak out at lunch break. If they ask where I was, I’ve got

a nuc ear-gra e trump car . T e teac ers’ e scram ing

over t emse ves to accommo ate me w en t ey n out

w at appene . I’ ave a coup e o mont s o t em

jumping t roug any oop I i e.

“Hope we’ll see some birds today,” she says, gesturing

at the feeder she’s got hanging from one of the apple trees.

This is a recent project.

“I et t ey’ go nuts or it,” I say.

S e scrapes er egg onto a p ate.“You now . . . ecause it’s u o nuts.”

Mum’s smi e comes on s ow y. S e oesn’t turn

around, but I can see the ghost of it in her reflection. It

only lasts a few moments.

I walk over to her. Ham follows me, snorting and butt-

ng at my egs. “I’ve got to get rea y or sc oo now,” I say.“An I’ e ome ate. I’ve got rug y practice tonig t.”

I on’t, ut I’m not sure ow ong t e meeting wi

a e.

“Do goo t ings to ay,” s e says. “You’re a specia

person.”

When I hug her, I can feel all the bones in her back.



My name is Lu e Manc ett, an I’m sixteen years o . I

ive in a town ca e Dun arrow, up in t e i s o Nort

East England. I was born in the Midlands, but Mum, oncehe separation was in the works, had a romantic idea of

escaping to a house in the country, which turned out to

e a ot ess romantic a ter ten years o re ent ess own-

pour an sma -town gossipmongering. Don’t get me

wrong: I’m sure t is is a great p ace to visit on a tour

us i you’re sixty years o . T ere are p enty o istoric

churches and burial mounds and Celtic sacrifice stones

and whatever. When you’re sixteen, Dunbarrow is a tacky

main street, one pub that might not ID, wet fields of sheep,

an a maze o re ric counci estates, w ere you on’t

want t e i s to catc you un ess t ey now your ace.I ive on Wormwoo Drive wit Mum, w ic is consi -

ere pos ecause we ave a ac gar en an a ront gar-

den. We’re on the outskirts of town, and the garden wall

separates us from the sheep paddocks, which stretch from

here to pretty much forever. Mum is enthusiastic about

is ecause it’s natura an organic, an t e s eep are soncre y organic — an rura — an tota y on’t ma e

you want to commit suici e i you mista en y meet t eir

at ea eyes.

We excuse the fact that Dunbarrow has nothing

oing on, because we’re closer to the region’s only city,

Brackford, than Throgdown and Sheepwallow and all



Brac or is a rusting iron giant, a en, sti getting up on

ts eet eca es a ter t ey c ose t e mines an s ut own

he shipyards. The sky is always gray and the wind comeshard off the concrete-colored sea, running wild through

he rows of terraced houses.

Anyway, w at appens next is I wa own our i

i e norma , wit my sc oo ag an everyt ing, an t en

I go to t e us station an c ange out o my uni orm in

e restrooms t ere. I spen orty- ve minutes eing

driven to Brackford. Once I’m there I get lunch (burger

and fries), wander around some music shops, and look at

fancy pairs of soccer cleats. Everywhere’s all decked out,

ea y or Ha oween: T ere are paper s e etons an p as-

ic witc es ang ing in s op win ows. Usua y w en wes ip sc oo it’s ecause Kir as a ree ouse an we can

crac some o is mum’s eers an p ay X ox. I’ pre er

hat to meeting with my dad’s lawyers. I really should’ve

old Mum about this. She ought to be with me. I know

I should go back home and tell her and then arrange to

come in anot er ay, ut at 1:45, I’m sitting in t e recep-ion area o Ber ey & Co. At t e es opposite me is a

on secretary w o scans er computer screen wit t e

compu sive ea movements o a trappe ir . A ter a

an our s e gives me a arrie no an I ma e my way in.

Mr. Berkley’s office is what I expected — sterile and

usinesslike. There’s a heavy black desk, dull gray filing



s arren o everyt ing ut a ountain pen an an antique

o c oc wit a rig t wagging pen u um. T ere are no

family photos.Mr. Berkley has plenty of lines on his face, but he’s

still pretty striking, one of those old people you can tell

use to e goo - oo ing, wit as -w ite air t at e s ic s

ac i e t e ea ing man in a 1930s movie. He’s got a neat

ear , an arge, even teet t at oo i e t ey cost more

an some peop e’s cars. He’s resse in a ig t gray suit

and a pink shirt, no tie, and he’s reading something from

a little notebook, which he tucks into a desk drawer as I

enter the room. He looks rich, more than rich — he looks

i e money came to i e an sat own in ront o me. He

stan s an near y in s me wit is smi e e ore reac -ng over is es an rm y s a ing my an an gui -

ng me own into t e seat opposite im a at once. He

smells of peppery aftershave. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

“Luke,” he says, grinning like we both just won the

ottery. “Master Luke A. Manchett, I presume? Son and

eir o t e ate Dr. Horatio Manc ett?”“U , i,” I say. His eyes are so ue t at t e irises oo

arti cia , i e t ey’re ma e o p astic. He’s rien y, ut I

ee i e e’s sizing me up or somet ing. I s i t in my seat.

“I do apologize for the wait,” he continues. “I’ve had

a lot to deal with today. Unexpected petitions, old friends

asking to renegotiate agreements. . . . I’ve been over-



“It’s a rig t, rea y.”

“T an you, my oy. Forgiveness is a great virtue,

wouldn’t you say? The unburdened soul floats easily inhe cold river.”

“Is that, like, poetry?” I ask.

“No,” e says, “not rea y. It’s a vice, I suppose. But

I orget w om it is rom. Anyway, I wante to say, e ore

we get own to t e etai s, t at I i e to t in I was rat er

c ose wit your ate at er. Horatio was a great man. Your

oss is all of our losses.”

I’m not sure that hosting a cheesy paranormal-themed

TV show qualifies you as “great,” but it doesn’t seem like

e rig t time to argue t is point.

“I i n’t rea y now im t at we ,” I say.“He regrette your estrangement. I can assure you

o t at.”

“I’d rather . . . I don’t know you. Sir. I’d rather not talk

about it. Sorry.”

“Apologies, apologies. Well, Luke, as you know, we

as e you to come in wit some urgency regar ing yourn eritance. It was your at er’s express wis t at you e

contacte as soon as possi e. I appreciate t e s ort notice

may ave een somew at inconvenient. I ope your tutors

were un erstan ing.”

I shrug.

“Anyway. Let’s get down to business. Luke, I’ve



on y name ene ciary o Horatio’s wi . You stan to

n erit is properties, ot omestic an overseas, as we

as future royalties from book and digital video sales. Theres also the matter of a bank account intended for your per-

sonal use containing a sum in excess of six million dollars,

w ic w en converte into ster ing is a out our mi ion

poun s. . . .”

He eeps ta ing, ut is voice as a e to a w is-

per compare wit t e t un ering rewor s isp ay

hat just lit up in my head. I feel like my chair just sent a

housand volts into my body. I assumed Dad did all right

from his TV show, but I didn’t know it was this good. I’m

a mi ionaire. Not just t at, a mu timi ionaire. A series

o magazine-exposé p otograp s is as ing t roug myea : VIP ta es, ott e service, pent ouse suites. I can’t

e ieve just yester ay I was worrie a out my exams.

Who cares? I won’t need to beg Mum for my own car

either, which is great because she’s been completely deaf

o my hints and hasn’t noticed the car magazines I’ve been

eaving aroun t e iving room or t e past six mont s. Ipicture myse at t e w ee o a rig t-orange Ferrari, wit

Ho i ay Simmon in t e passenger seat, er air g owing

n t e ig t o a tropica sunset as we —

“Lu e?”

“Yeah,” I say, not having listened to a word Mr.

Berkley was saying.



“U - u . Da ’s estate. Six mi ion o ars. Domestic

an overseas. DVD sa es.”

“That was the general outline, yes. Now, as sole ben-eficiary of the will, there are certain steps you’re required

o take in order to inherit —”

“He i n’t eave any o it to anyone e se?” I a ways

oug t t ere must at east e anot er woman: on ,

in, a is age.

“As I sai , Lu e. So e ene ciary. He require t at

you alone be contacted about this matter, not your mother

or anyone else. He was very clear about that. Now, the

first thing you need to do is sign some documents, indicat-

ng t at you un erstan w at I’m te ing you to ay an

at you’re wi ing to accept u responsi i ity or yourat er’s estate.”

Bring it on, I want to scream at im. W atever it

akes. Show me the money. I came in expecting to inherit

some cuff links or a watch. Berkley roots around in a desk

drawer for a few moments. I watch the clock pendulum

sw ng.“Here we are,” e says, aying some s eets o paper

on t e es . I ea t roug t em. T e top ew are norma

ega ocuments, computer-type , printe on ega paper.

I sign them with Berkley’s fountain pen. The bottom sheet

s different, and I pause. It’s a rough, yellowing sheet of

parchment, and the text has been written by hand in weird



rown in . T e script is tiny an ornate, a rantic mess o

Got ic ettering. I squint, ut I can’t rea any o it.

“What is this? Is this in English?” I ask Berkley.“Latin, my boy. Is there a problem?”

I run my fingers over the parchment. It feels rough,

rous.

“Ve um,” says Mr. Ber ey. “Ma e rom goats in.

Di cu t to source t ese ays, as I’m sure you can imagine.

We ave a man in Cum ria.”

I rest the pen on the blank space at the bottom of the

page. Berkley leans forward in his chair. I withdraw the

pen nib. The gold clock ticks, a steady brittle sound.

“W at am I signing?” I as .

“As I exp aine , Lu e, your at er —”“W at am I signing rig t now? W y is t is written in

Latin on goats in?”

Berkley runs a hand over his slick hair. He blows air

out of his nose.

“Luke, I know this probably seems . . . unusual, but

Horatio was assure y not a paint- y-num ers man.T ere are a num er o stipu ations e ore you can receive

any o is money or property. T e rst o t ese is t at t is

particu ar ocument e signe y you, to ay. T is is a

very specific request, made in a legally binding last will

and testament. Unless you sign this document, here, now,

I am under instructions to dissolve the late Dr. Manchett’s



estate an contri ute t e procee s to various c arita e

organizations. You an your mot er wi not receive a

single penny. All very noble, I think you’ll agree, but prob-ably not the outcome you’d like, and frankly not the out-

come I’m looking for today either. If you want to read

your at er’s instructions or me on t is matter, I ave t e

papers ere.”

Ber ey reac es into anot er rawer an pus es some

ring- oun ocuments at me. T ere are more paragrap s

and subclauses than I could read if I sat here all day,

ut it’s unmistakably Dad’s signature on each one. I recog-

nize it from the birthday cards he’d send.

I oo own at my snea ers. T e w o e t ing is just

o . Da eaves everyt ing, every ast t ing, to a son easn’t spo en to or a eca e? W y not Mum? Di e not

rust er wit t e money? Is t at one o t e reasons t ey

roke up? He just decides to make me a multimillionaire?

If I didn’t know better, I’d almost expect there to be a hid-

den camera watching what I do, like this is a setup for a

pran s ow. An Mr. Ber ey is starting to creep me out,smi ing ar too muc , as ing me to write my name on

goats n . . .

I eci e t ere isn’t muc c oice. T e image o me an

Ho i ay riving t roug t e A ps is too strong. I’m eing

iven more than I ever thought I would earn in my life,

and that’s just for starters. Freedom from exams, from



say no? I press Ber ey’s pen into t e ve um an create

a passa e version o my signature. T e ni gets stuc in

he fibers and I need to use more force than normal. As Iift the pen the clock seems to hold its tick in for a moment

onger than it should, golden pendulum frozen in space,

i e t e room eci e to s ip a eat.

Mr. Ber ey re axes, eaning ac in is c air. He

smi es, an t e expression reac es is eyes or t e rst

me.

“I think you made the right decision,” Berkley says.

“I must note that there are some other conditions that

must be met before the financial and property transfers

can e ma e, w ic I’m not current y at i erty to isc ose.

But I’m con ent t at t ey wi reso ve t emse ves s ort y.I not, I wi contact you wit in t e ortnig t to urnis

you wit t e u etai s. O , an t ere are some misce a-

neous items you’ve inherited, which I’m under instruction

o give you immediately.” He reaches into another drawer

and brings out a bundle of papers tied together with rib-

on, a u meta case t at oo s i e somet ing you’eep a pair o g asses in, an a sma green oo .

“W at’s t is?” I as , pic ing up t e oo . It’s sma

an t ic , on y a it arger t an t e Bi es t ey eave in

he drawers of hotels. It smells old, almost ripe, and

what I can see of the paper looks as yellow as a smoker’s

eeth. It’s bound in pale-green leather, with no visible title



on t e ront cover. T e oo is astene s ut wit a pair

o u meta c asps. I try to open t em, ut t ey’re stuc

somehow, and they dig painfully into my fingers.“An antique, I’m given to understand,” Berkley is say-

ng, “quite what it meant to your father I’m unclear, but

e was insistent t at you e given it imme iate y. It’s —

o e care u — it’s rat er va ua e. I suggest you treat it

ent y.”

I put t e oo own an pic up t e meta case. It

rattles when I move it, sounding like there are a lot of

small loose objects inside. It opens at one end. I tilt it and

a shower of rings fall out onto the dark wood of the desk:

o en rings, rings set wit re stones, ue stones, ac

stones. A ring in t e s ape o a ion, an anot er wit arinning s u set into it. I count nine in a . I pic up a ew

o t e rings at ran om, turn t em over in my an s. T ey

feel cool, heavy. I’ve never seen Dad without them; they

were sort of his trademark. Someone must’ve pulled them

off his fingers after he died.

I put t e rings ac own.“He i n’t expect me to wear t ese, i e?” I as .

“He inten e or you to ave t em,” Ber ey rep ies.

“W at’s one wit t em is entire y yours to eci e.”

“W at a out t ese?” I as , pointing at t e papers.

“Items from your father’s desk, I believe. Correspon-

dence and so forth. He wished for you to read them.”



“I’ve got exams, you now?” I say.

“An I’m sure your at er wou e t ri e to ear

how devoted you are to your studies,” he says, smiling,without a detectable trace of sarcasm. “In their present

state, they’re somewhat inconvenient to transport. . . .

Here, et me get you a ocument wa et.” Mr. Ber ey

stan s an moves over to a ca inet at t e ac o t e room.

He returns wit a eavy rown e o er. “Don’t want to

e caug t wit out one o t ese in my ine o wor . Never

now when you’ll need somewhere to keep a contract. . . .

There. All safe.”

The lawyer stuffs Dad’s papers into the folder and

en arranges t e green oo an ring case a ongsi e it.

He pus es t em towar me.“Is t at everyt ing?” I as . My min as es again to

e money, an t en I won er again i t is is some in

of trick. I’m half hoping he’ll pull out a briefcase full of

fifties.

“For now. As I said, you won’t receive the money

ig t away. T ere are t ose ingering con itions t at neeo e met, tax to e negotiate , t at sort o t ing. Detai s,

etai s. I’ e in touc once everyt ing’s sett e .”

“OK,” I say, scooping Da ’s ring co ection ac into

e case. I stan up an put t e oo an rings into my

coat pocket. The documents are tucked under my arm. Mr.

Berkley springs to his feet, thrusts his arm at me. I shake



“May I say once more ow sorry I am or your oss,

Lu e. Horatio was very ear to me. It’s een extreme y

nteresting to finally meet his heir. I hope very much thatf there is ever anything you need, anything I can help you

with, you won’t hesitate to contact me.”

“It’s nice to meet you as we ,” I say, prising my an

rom is grip. I imme iate y eci e t at, once I get Da ’s

money, I wi never spea to t is man again, or any rea-

son. I’ve never een more sure o anyt ing. I want to get

as far away as possible from his clicking golden clock and

his creepy stare. I step backward, away from him, waving

good- bye with my free arm.

“A p easure,” Mr. Ber ey says, “a p easure, Lu e. I

ee certain we s a meet again.”

I take some more time to wander around Brackford after-

ward so it looks like I’ve been to practice after school, and

I get the bus back into Dunbarrow at six o’clock. As I sit

on t e top ec , watc ing t e ar ening s y unro en -ess y a ove t e ig way, its o my ay ricoc et aroun

my ea i e pin a s. Go en reams o wea t , o s oes,

new jeans, cars, ouses, mixe wit ar er t oug ts: t e

etter, Mum stan ing at t e sin , saying to ay was a lue

day. Berkley sizing me up, peering without any warmth

hrough his vivid blue eyes. The parchment I put my name



my raincoat. I ee i e I got o ere somet ing I cou n’t

e use, an in return I agree to somet ing I on’t un er-

stand. Why did Dad name only me in his will? What aboutMum? How did he die, and why does nobody but me and

Berkley seem to know anything about it? What happened

o Da , exact y?

T e ast time I saw im — ot er t an t e ay e e t

us, ot er t an g impses o is ace on t e cover o iscount

paper ac s — I was teen, ome rom sc oo wit t e

u, slumped in front of our TV. My forehead was crying

sweat, and my body felt inflated and sore, like someone

had stuck me with a bicycle pump. I was channel surfing,

an Da ’s ace came up on t e screen.

He’ een eating we , you cou see t at, an isw ite suit oo e a size sma or im. His ear was i e

somet ing you’ pu out o a rain, is ngers a en wit

ings.

Dad was talking intently with an old woman who was

convinced her dead husband was still lingering in their

ouse. S e a seen im in is avorite c air, s e sai ,or not seen im exact y ut s e a sense im. S e a

sme e is scent, t e a ters ave e’ a ways worn since

is ays in t e army. S e mentione t is point severa

imes, t at e’ een in t e army, giving it greater weig t

han the fact he was dead. A man of habit, Dad said, sym-

pathetic, and she agreed. The woman said she’d seen cush-



morning, s e sai , is s oes wou e ai out esi e t e

we come mat — o matter how many times she put them back

in the attic. She said this last part with the breathy intensityof the truly batshit insane.

My dad nodded and said he’d like to see the chair,

e mig t. T e camera o owe t roug to t e iving

oom. S e so emn y in icate t e c air er us an sti

avore , an Da too o one o is rings an ung it on

a c ain, t en ang e it over t e c air saying, “Yes, yes, I

can feel his spirit lingering here. He has not crossed over.”

He took the widow’s hand in his and, looking into her

eyes, told a grieving old woman that her husband needed

e p getting imse to t e a ter i e, an t at e was t e

one to provi e it.Seeing t e oo o eigne ove an concern on is

ace — ecause e oo e at me i e t at e ore e e t,

whenever I fell down in the park or came to talk to him

about the monsters in the closet — hurt an amazing

amount, like being stabbed, and I changed the channel

an was care u not to watc is s ow again.

It’s u y ar , spotting wit rain, as I wa own t e rive

and come in through the front door. I realize with a jolt

of annoyance that I’m not muddy or carrying my sports

ag, which calls my rugby story into question, but Mum



oesn’t come c ose to noticing. S e’s sitting on t e so a

wit a ace mas pac e wit ice strappe to er ea ,

which is never a good omen. She’s ignoring a soap opera.Ham lies like a living rug at her feet.

“Hello, love.”

“A rig t, Mum.” I squeeze er an .

“We a some sparrows in t e gar en to ay. I’ve

a ways een so g a we came out ere. Rea ir s, you

now? Not just pigeons. How was your ay?”

I discovered that my estranged father — your ex-

husband — is dead. I met Dad’s weird solicitor and signed

for four million pounds, conditional upon who knows

w at. I on’t now i I i t e rig t t ing.

“Sc oo was a rig t. Not ing appene .”Mum smi es in a a - ocuse way.

“Are you OK?” I as .

“I’ve been getting some fireflies, just this past hour.

Don’t worry yourself.”

The “fireflies” are sparks and flashes Mum gets in the

corner o er eyes w en a ig ea ac e is coming on. Is ou ave sai somet ing to er t is morning. S e’

are y e a e to stan up or t e rest o t e wee . I won’t

et any e p rom er. I eci e we can ta a out Da

w en s e gets etter. S e oo s strange in er neon- ue

ce mask, like an extra on a cheap superhero show.

“Get some rest, Mum. I’ll get myself dinner.”



“Goo a . G a to ear it. Be a ar ing an ee Ham,

wou you? He’s een oing my ea in a ay, scratc -

ng and yelping.”“All right.”

I feed Ham a tin of Mr. Paws’ Doggy Deluxe before

s oving im outsi e. I put some pasta on, an y t e

ime it’s one, Mum as ragge erse up to e . S e

pro a y wante to go ours ago, ut I now s e i es

o wait unti I’m ac in t e ouse so t at I on’t come

home to empty rooms. There’s a proper rainstorm start-

ng, and when I let Ham back in, he’s soaked to the skin,

his downy gray fur plastered over his thin back and legs.

He gives me a paine oo w en I aug , an s in s o to

ie un er a ra iator. I c ec my texts. Kir sent one t isa ternoon, saying e an Mar set Nic A sip’s tie on re

wit a Bunsen urner in c emistry to ay. Kir says it was

“legendary.” I obviously missed a big day at Dunbarrow

High. I wash up and then, on a whim, go into the hallway

and take Dad’s green book from my raincoat pocket. The

win rises outsi e. I oo t e oo over in t e im ig to t e a . Ber ey sai it was va ua e. W at’s so specia

a out it? I run a nger over t e eig t-pointe star on t e

cover. T e eat er is smoot an co .

I go and sit on the sofa in the living room, with the TV

still burbling in the background. I mute it and try to undo

he clasps on the book. They’re stuck, stiff as corpses.



orce t em, ut I on’t want to amage t e oo . It oo s

so o . I e nite y on’t want to rea it open — t at’

uin the sale value. I put it aside and watch soccer on TV.The white ball is a tiny speck against green grass.

I on’t now w at time it is. T e win ows are ac eyes

n t e wa . T e TV is on stan y, projecting a o ow ue

ig t. Ham ies as eep in ront o it, urry c est in ating

and contracting as he whines in his dream. The wind is a

muted rushing noise outside, and I can hear something —

a pipe, maybe — rattling in the walls. I’m lying on the sofa.

Da ’s green oo is on my c est, c asps c ose .

I sit up s ow y, ee ing i e I’m sti as eep. I move t eoo o my c est an onto t e arm o t e so a. T e oi er

must ave s orte out or somet ing, ecause I can see my

reath hanging in clouds. I stand and walk quietly across

he living room into the kitchen. There’s no light except the

low of the microwave control panel. Weren’t the lights on

w en I sat own on t e so a? Di Mum come ac answitc t em o ? As my eyes i ate t e ar ness seeps into

me an I see more c ear y, t e way you o w en t ere’s

no ig t, see t e itc en in so t s a es o gray. Outsi e t e

win ow in t e gar en, t e app e trees are t ras ing. T e

noise of the wind is louder in here. The sky is a whirl of

lacks, the horizon stained dirty orange by distant street



T e co rom t e stone ti es is c im ing my egs,

ea ing or my insi es. I want to turn t e ig ts on, ut

something stops me, saying that if I turn on the lights thenwhatever is outside the house will be able to see me.

This is stupid. I’m scared because it’s dark and cold

an my eep y urie mon ey rain as een pro-

ramme y mi ions o years o evo ution to e rea e

out in situations t at are ar ecause my eyes are not as

a ept at seeing in t e ar as our pre ators’ eyes use

o be. This is the reason I’m afraid. There’s nothing out-

side the house. I listen for Mum coughing or moving, but

here’s no sound from upstairs.

Wa ing wit e i erate care, I exit t e itc en an

stan in t e a way. T ere aren’t any win ows in ere,an even t oug t at ma es it ar er t an t e itc en, I

ee ca mer. T is is ri icu ous. I’m sixteen, not a six-year-

old with a night-light.

Before I can think this over anymore, I stride back into

he kitchen and flick on all the lights. For added defiance,

I turn on t e ett e. T e ouse ec oes wit t e soun ou ing water an angry steam. Re axing comp ete y, I

wa over to t e ri ge an pu out a pac et o processe

ur ey. As I eat one o t e e icious, i ru ery, s ices, I

congratulate myself. It’s perfectly natural to feel uneasy

when alone in a dark place, but giving in to such animal

fears is shameful. I am a candle of reason in the demon-



I’m interrupte uring t ese t oug ts y a gigantic

cras upstairs, i e someone just roppe a ow ing a

hrough the roof. Ham starts yowling. He rushes into theitchen and presses himself against my leg.

I put the turkey back in the fridge — I should make

t c ear t at my an s are e nite y not s a ing as I o

t is — an reac over into t e ancy-cut ery rawer

an ta e out t e s arpest meat s ewer t at we own.

Em o ene y t e eig t-inc spi e, I orce myse across

he kitchen and into the dark hallway. Ham follows with

his head bowed, moaning softly.

“Shut up,” I tell him, and he obeys. I try to ignore the

sic ee ing in my stomac i e I just steppe o t e si e o

a ri ge an am p ummeting towar ac rozen water. Iocus on t e s ewer. I am an A p a Ma e wit testoster-

one ea ing out o my sweat g an s. Ham, my oya an

subservient pack member, is looking to me for guidance in

his situation.

“Mum?” I ask, projecting my voice upstairs.

T e trees crea .“Mum!”

Ham pus es is ea ar er against my egs. It wou

e just i e er to s eep t roug t is, ut t e sti ness

upstairs is freaking me out. I need to know that she’s all

ight.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and qui-



e an ing. It’s ar to say exact y w ere t e noise came

rom. Was it t e at room? Ham pa s past me an points

his nose toward Mum’s room.“You’re sure?” I whisper. He whines.

I stare at the white wood, breathing hard.

T ere’s not ing insi e t e ouse . . .

I put my an on t e oor.

Ham s i ts is weig t an w impers.

I c ose my eyes an imagine t at Ho i ay Simmon,

lond and gorgeous, is watching me somehow, on TV

maybe. She wants to see me win. This is where I prove I’m

worthy.

I grip t e s ewer tig t y, an t en, e ore I can t in

wice, I urst into Mum’s room, rea y to sta as manyurg ars wit my meat s ewer as I can e ore t ey ta e

me own.

There’s nobody except Mum in the room.

I whirl around in case they hid behind the door, but

here’s simply nobody else here.

I a so can’t e p ut notice t at Ham i n’t actua yo ow me into att e. He’s sti stan ing out on t e an -

ng, wit just is s aggy ea peering aroun t e oor

rame.

“ Ju as.” I spit t e wor at im, waving my s ewer.

“You furry little Judas.”

He pads into the bedroom and licks my hand.



Cowar ice asi e, it seems Ham was rig t a out com-

ng in ere. T e win ows are comp ete y open, an win

s ranting into Mum’s bedroom. This must’ve been thesource of the noise. Mum’s green-and-orange curtains are

apping about, but apart from that, nothing seems out of

p ace. Her tri a mas s are sti anging on t e wa , er

map o t e stars is sti in prime position. S e’s ying in

e , air tang e over er pi ow.

“Mum?”

She raises her head like a swimmer, takes a breath.

“Yes, love?”

“Mum, your window just flew right open. You didn’t

ear anyt ing?”

“No, no. O , gos . . .”“You i n’t —”

“Lu e, ove . . . p ease. I nee to rest.”

“OK,” I say, unable to believe she didn’t notice her

window blowing open in the middle of a storm. Her doc-

ors aren’t shy with the prescriptions.

S e’s a rea y sin ing ac own onto t e pi ow.I c ose er win ow, ma ing sure to atc t e o t prop-

er y. I stare into t e ac yar , w ic is it y t e ig ts sti

urning in t e itc en. Mum’s reat ing ecomes eeper

an s ower. T ere’s no o y out t ere, or rat er no evi-

dence of anyone that I can see. I don’t know what I was

ooking for, whether I expected to see Mr. Berkley out on



e awn or w at. It starts to rain again, an t e rop ets

are i e itt e iamon s on t e g ass. Soon t ere are too

many of them for me to see anything.“It was probably just the —” I start to say to Ham, and

hen stop myself. Whenever someone in a film says it’s just

t e w n , t ey’re imme iate y mur ere .

“Let’s not et our guar own.”

Ham ru s is ea on my t ig . Outsi e, t e storm

oars. Mum sig s an turns over. Two o er pi s an

she’s out of it. No help.

“Look,” I say to Ham as we leave, “this will be a one-

time-only event, but how do you feel about sleeping in my

e room tonig t? On t e oor, o vious y.”



Thirteen Days of MidnightLeo Hunt

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