Read The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall for Free Online

myself?
    â€œI – I’m OK. I’m just a bit cold,” I say directly to Mum, pretending my hesitation is all to do with temperature and nothing to do with strange sounds in my head. (Maybe I
did
bump it in the fountain before Mr Fraser pulled me free. Or I could’ve got whiplash. That can make you feel pretty weird, can’t it?)
    Mum frowns, trying to use her parental intuition to figure out if I’m fibbing or not. Maybe I should get out of here, before the waves rush in…
    â€œI’m just going to get changed into something warmer,” I say, pointing my thumb in the direction of the servants’ quarters upstairs. “Where’s my stuff?”
    â€œOh, I chose a really nice room for you, with the best views. The removal men put all your furniture and bags and boxes in already, so you’ll find it OK,” says Mum. “And if you go through the big door in the passageway behind you, it’ll take you straight to the back stairs, and save you trailing through the main house again.”
    I nod and smile (or as close as I can manage) and turn to leave so Mum and Mr Fraser can discuss scaffolding and roof joists and damp courses in peace.
    â€œExcuse me,” I mumble at Cam, and slither past him, pulling open the nearest heavy door, hoping madly it’s the right one and that I don’t have to backtrack. Luckily, it is, and I’m grateful for the cool bite of air on my hot cheeks as I stamp up the grey stone steps of the stairwell.
    What exactly happened back there in the kitchens? I can’t feel any bumps on the back of my head so I’m not sure if I can blame concussion. Maybe I’m just over-imaginative. That’s what Granny called me, after I’d Skyped to tell her I’d won an inter-school poetry competition last term. Granny sat there in the Sydney morning sunshine and listened as I read out my poem about refugees, then told me I’d “always been an over-imaginative child”. I’d beamed and said thank you, but as soon as I’d finished the call, I’d wondered if it actually was a compliment. I’m never very sure with Granny; she’s not a cuddly kind of grandmother – though I guess it’s hard to cuddle someone when they live more than nine thousand miles away. But maybe Granny has a point. Maybe I
am
over-imaginative, if I’m hearing things that aren’t even there…
    I shake those thoughts from my head as I reach the vaguely familiar territory of the servants’ quarters’ corridor and start to hunt around for whichever room Mum’s chosen for me. Nope, not here – Mum’s turned this into a temporary living room, with our sofa and TV from London looking strangely at home. (More at home than I look, I bet.)
    And not here; I’ve found myself back in Mum’s bedroom, where I spent the night. The next door leads to the nasty ’70s kitchenette; next to
that
is the bathroom (complete with original, and stained, Edwardian sink and loo, with a modern-ish shower stuffed in a corner). This next room is set up with a desk and more mood boards and is obviously Mum’s nerve centre for the Shiny New Project.
    All that’s left are two doors facing each other at the end of the corridor, the end nearest the linking entrance to the main house. The first door I stick my head around reveals a dreary little space, with a small, cobweb-curtained window. It’s obviously destined to be the spare room; our old futon is plonked in the middle of it, folded flat and waiting to be assembled. So I turn and cross the corridor to the only room remaining.
    It’s not a good start – I put my hand out to grab a doorknob but there isn’t one. I stand back and check out the door in front of me; where a brass lock should be there’s just a rectangular grooved outline, and some dents in the wood as if someone once hacked the whole thing off with a hammer. And the old green