The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

an ancient Witch Doctor, her fingers began the task of performing delicate brush strokes as they depicted the electric blue eyes. When Quassi scratched at the door, she let him out. Totally absorbed, Meli worked on.
    Her body suddenly levitated itself from the seat as her neck slowly twisted over her shoulder. Outside she heard something, movement, like the sound of a stone rolling across the ground. It was probably just the boys, or maybe Cassie. So why were the hairs along her spine standing up like spikes? Creeping forward she edged her way to the door. Pushing it open tentatively, she peered out. She couldn’t see anyone, yet every instinct told her that someone was there, secreted just out of sight. Stepping outside she slowly turned a full circle, her paint brush clutched tightly in her grasp like a blade. She wished she hadn’t let Quassi out, she would have felt safer knowing he was there.
    No one is watching you, she told herself with as much conviction as she could muster in the circumstances. I must look a right prat, standing out here with a frightened look on my face, armed with a loaded brush. She managed to grin at her own foolishness, and the action was like a tonic that melted away her fears. Either that, or who/whatever was watching her had gone. “Pull yourself together, you dotty old fool,” she said, this time speaking her thoughts out loud, conscious that her mouth was as dry as a fish bone left out on the beach. She swallowed. Had it been Elsa’s ghost? Come back to haunt her? Returning to her studio, she rammed the door closed. She had never believed in ghosts, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now.
    Easing herself down onto her stool, she tried to control her jittery nerves that kept sending electrical charges up her spine to her shoulders and neck, trying to force her to glance at the window. Her fingers whitened as they tightened their grip on the brush. You’ve letting your imagination get the better of you, she told herself, you’ll be seeing little green men soon, or more likely, little men, but in white coats. Reaching out she dipped the tip of her brush in a new pot of dye and then dropped it on the floor. Crimson dye splattered over the tiles.
    Blood on the knees of her jeans.
    How had she got blood on them?
    She had seen Elsa’s body and then fled from the scene.
    She remembered it so vividly. Why hadn’t she remembered it before? Was that why she couldn’t bring herself to throw them out? Not because they were her favourites, but because they were trying to tell her something and she wasn’t listening? No wonder she had been so tense, she’d displayed about as much intelligence as a length of snapped knicker elastic.
    Scraping back her chair, she ran into the house, took the stairs two at a time and hitting the bathroom at full pelt she snatched up the lid, almost falling into the basket in her haste. Steadying herself, she dived in with her arm and retrieved the creased, damp pair of jeans. She spread them out over her extended forearm. The blood stains were still clearly visible, a deep reddish brown. Large patches on both knees. How? Sinking down onto the side of the bath she forced herself to try to remember exactly what had happened after she went into the farmhouse, trying to resurrect the memories she had spent days trying to bury. She was sure that she hadn’t knelt on the floor, was certain of it. So where had the blood come from? The disturbing question pounded in her mind.
    She lifted her head, hearing footsteps on the stairs. She relaxed, recognising them as Quassi’s. When he sauntered into the room and thrust his chin on her lap, she obligingly rubbed his ear for him. He had that same musty smell on him that he usually acquired when he’d been off on his own. Where had he been? For no justifiable reason, she decided to take a walk down to Brambly Hollow Farm, to revisit the scene. Pushing Quassi away, she folded up the jeans, and then interned them back in the wicker basket.

Chapter 23

    The farmhouse was like an empty canvass, washed over in non descript shades of grey: grey stones, cold grey concrete yard, peeling greyish-white paintwork; just waiting for the first splash of colour to give it character and identity. Gone was the House of Horrors image. What new character would it have? Vibrant and vivacious maybe? As she approached, Meli toyed with images of bright shutters, overflowing hanging baskets; dotted several flowerbeds about the