CHAPTER 1: A NEW HOME

WHEN CHARLIE WEAVER first saw the hotel at the top of Cross Tree Road, Salterhebble, Halifax, he knew at once that there was something strange about it. It stood on the edge of a great cliff, a dark and brooding shadow that blotted out the sky and dominated the valley below. Overgrown with weeds and bushes and gnarled old oaks, the hotel looked as though it had been left to decay, forgotten by the world.

He looked up at the hotel on that clear September morning and shielded his eyes. The sun was unusually bright, and the house, with its dark slate roof and whitewashed walls, seemed ancient and dilapidated. Paint had come away from the window frames, leaving behind dark and ugly stains, and rainwater had fallen through holes in the broken guttering, allowing stagnant water to run down the brickwork like black tears.

The hotel looked like the kind of place that might be filled with ghosts, or rats, or both. It had many leaded windows (a large number of them broken), and several floors. Each window on the first floor had a wide balcony, and the once-grand double doors of the main entrance had six dirt-smeared pillars that supported a pointed roof which had once been a deep red in colour, but was now a sickly and faded brown.

It was not at all what he had expected. It just seemed so very dirty. Grime appeared to have seeped into the walls and it looked as though it would never be clean again. He firmly believed that nothing could ever restore the hotel it to its original beauty, if it had ever had any.

His father had said they were going to have a wonderful new life in their new home. But Charlie wasn’t so sure. He climbed out of the car and stood miserably on the gravel path. It felt as though they had come to the most remote place on Earth, for apart from the sprawling mansion, there was not so much as a lonely hut as far as the eye could see.

Charlie stayed close to his parents while his mother unlocked the huge white side door and started bringing in items from the car. His father kept walking back to the road to stare off into the distance, looking for the removal van that had supposedly been following them from their old house that seemed so very far away now.

His mother was a tall and thin woman with curly dark brown hair that was almost black. She had pale blue eyes and even paler skin. His father was also tall and he, too, had dark hair. He was deeply tanned from his long years in the army and he looked several years older than he actually was. He tutted and walked back to the car shaking his head. He did not seem very pleased at all.

‘Where are they?’ he breathed impatiently, tapping his foot in the gravel.

‘They’ll be here,’ his mother replied curtly. They did not speak again for a long time. Charlie stood by the car door and waited. Just turned twelve, he was a boy of average height, with brilliant blue eyes, wavy, almost black hair, and long dark eyelashes. He wore a black t-shirt and blue jeans, and he stood looking up at his mother, wishing they could all get back in the car and go back to their home in Leeds.

It had been his parents’ dream to own an hotel, and his mother had quite recently inherited this one from their Uncle Albert. Before Charlie could blink, the paperwork had been signed and they were moving in. Charlie had asked why he couldn’t just stay in their old house, but none of his questions were ever answered. Not once did anyone ask him what he wanted or whether he wanted to leave his old life behind to move into the horrible hotel. In fact, no one ever asked him anything at all.

No one ever listened to what he wanted.

His mother noticed him loitering beside the car. ‘Go and play, Charlie,’ she commanded. Wistfully, he did as she said, and turned back to the dark hotel. It had been empty for the longest time and the gardens had grown wild during the warm summer. He dragged his feet sullenly as he explored, already missing his old home more than he could possibly say and wishing he were there now, hidden in his attic-bedroom with his comics and toys.

A dark stone wall surrounded the gardens, and there were odd shapes and unwelcoming shadows in every direction. He stepped through a crumbling archway to find an orchard before him that stretched all the way down to the cliff face in the distance.

The grass was tall and whipped into frenzy by the cool breeze which swept around the house. Charlie wandered into the grass and made his way toward the line of trees. The garden was dangerous, filled with broken bottles and half-ruined stuffed chairs with the stuffing exposed. He stared down at an upturned lawn mower that had fallen over and decided to be even more careful as he eyed one of the rusted blades warily.

The orchard was long and narrow. Charlie wandered into the shadowed depths where the sun did not shine, and walked through the trees. At one time, the orchard had been made into a bower, where the trees overhung the crazy paved path that led to the far side of the garden, and where a large wrought iron - and now rusted - seat stood overlooking the valley. Charlie walked down to the wide seat and looked out over the countryside. In the distance, he could see the odd car and glimmer of movement, and even some houses in the blurred distance. That gave him some comfort; at least he wasn’t as far from civilisation as he had at first believed.

Then, quite suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine. He felt as though someone was standing right behind him. He turned around sharply, but there was nobody there. The leaves moved in wild spirals along the path, as though someone had fled in a hurry, but there was no one in sight.

It was suddenly cold, dark, and unwelcoming in the orchard, and Charlie felt afraid in the gloom. 

He ran back to the house as quickly as his legs would carry him.