The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

whispered in her head. Above her was a bulb. That would certainly make things easier. She searched for the switch. It was a pull cord. Giving it a quick tug, a brownish light filtered down. Beneath a small filthy window, a workbench ran along one side, where several tins of dog food were stacked, at least one of which was open. That accounted for the stench. There was a cupboard in the far corner, a bench seat and tools to her left, and peering behind the door revealed a couple of sacks, perched like two ancient tatty teddies, their stuffing of wood chippings spilling out onto the floor from their headless bodies.
    Moving forward, she took the four strides that placed her in front of the cupboard. Unlatching it, she pulled it open. She stepped back, shocked. There was Elsa’s elephant gun, propped on the floor. At least it looked like the same one that she’d seen in the farmhouse, and how many antique guns were there likely to be, hanging around? Barely daring to breathe, she reached out to touch the cold, polished metal, as if needing to convince herself that it was real. She gasped. It was. What was it doing here?
    Forgetting about the gun for a moment, she checked the rest of the contents, wishing she had a torch to aid her as the overhead light barely penetrated here. There were some tins at the back of the shelves. More dog food? Stretching out, she drew one close and studied the label, her eyebrows drawing together in surprise. It was a tin of baked beans. Nothing unusual about that, you might think. Only this discovery caused her stomach to contract sharply. It was a brand she had brought with her when they moved to Brambly Hollow Lodge, purchased from a store local to Reading, and most certainly not a brand you could buy locally. She had thought some of these had gone missing months ago, but hadn’t been totally sure. Almost frantically she filtered through the rest of the contents on the gritty shelves, trying not to think about mouse droppings and who knew what else, especially trying not to think about what creepy crawlies her fingers might encounter. Her search produced three Wagon Wheels, the part used jar of pickled onions she hadn’t been able to find, an open packet of Rich Tea biscuits, alongside Cassie’s hairbrush, and what looked suspiciously like the CD remote control. She could only say that it looked like it, because whatever it had been originally was hard to determine, as it had been partially dismantled, its innards exposed like a dissected rat in a school lab.
    Holding the brush tightly in her fingers, she sank down onto the bench. Her mind was in turmoil, trying to work out what this all meant. They (or at least Cal, who had put pressure on her regarding this) had come to the conclusion that no one had been in the lodge and stolen from them, as Quassi was too blame. But now she knew he wasn’t. So who was? Shivers ran their cold fingers all over her flesh. Suddenly she felt vulnerable, and in response the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose up like the Himalayas. Outside, anything could be creeping up on the lean-to right at that moment: mutated, half human creatures, like the army of the dead from The Evil Dead. Someone (or something, she tried not to allow any images to accompany this thought) used this place, and they could return at any time. What to do? She shot to her feet, her breaths snorting from her nostrils like a panicked bull. Should she take anything back with her as proof? No, that would alert Whoever, that someone had been here. Reluctantly, trying to hold together her tattered nerves, she replaced the hairbrush, pushed the tins and other food items to the backs of the shelves and then closed the cupboard. Casting her eyes around the interior she checked to make sure everything looked untouched. As far as she could tell it looked okay.
    Tip-toeing soundlessly to the doorway, she peered out with some trepidation. When she found the coast clear, she ran full pelt for the gate, almost breaking her ankles in her heeled sandals. Dashing into the protective shadowy edges of the woodlands, she trotted along the narrow pathways as quickly as she safely could, her wide eyes flapping around in their sockets as they tried to check out every fearful sound, and boy, were there a lot of sounds. The cracking of twigs, things moving just out of sight through the undergrowth, or above her in the tree tops, the breeze shaking the leaves at her, surreptitious chirrups and clicking