Page 8 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow (Crawshanks Guide to Mischievous Spectres & Spirits #2)

8

I materialise in a part of the attics that hasn’t seen a living footprint in decades. It’s dark despite the odd window letting in meagre shafts of pale sunlight that filter between stacks of boxes and piles of old furniture. Huge cobwebs drape from shadowed corners and festoon across the beams like bunting. Tiny dust motes hover in the air, glinting every now and then as they stray into the light, but I pay it all no mind.

All my attention is on the tiny figure bundled in the corner and sat atop an old packing crate containing god knows what—could be moth-eaten quilts or books filled with silverfish for all I know. I’d always meant to sort through the attics while I was alive, but there never seemed to be enough time. Must remember to mention that to Ellis, surely he can make some time to go through all of this.

“Go away, Bertie,” a sullen voice whispers.

Not likely.

I take two steps toward him and plonk myself down in a wooden rocking chair that’s seen better days. Although I can have somewhat of a corporeal presence if I choose, most of the time my natural form is rather more insubstantial, which is probably a good thing given the state of the chair.

“Been looking all over for you, lad,” I say briskly. “Now, what’s this all about?”

“Nuffin’.” His arms are wrapped around his bent legs and his face is buried in his knees, muffling his voice.

“Come along now,” I say, a tad more gently. “Can’t be as bad as all that.”

“I said nuffin’,” he mumbles.

“Well, nothing doesn’t accord for all the upside-down furniture. I don’t mind you doing a little rearranging, but dash it all, lad, some of those pieces, particularly the bed in 419 and wardrobe in 406, have been in the family for centuries. I’d rather you didn’t damage them. My ancestors will be rolling over in their graves.”

His little face peeks up, giving me a full view of reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. I wince as he wipes his snotty nose on the sleeve of his jumper. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Here, lad. Use this before you end up with crusty train tracks up your arm. We do have a reputation to maintain around here, you know.”

He takes the handkerchief, but rather than blowing his nose with the darned thing, he balls it in his hand and looks up at me miserably.

“If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, Arthur, I can’t help.”

He shrugs and stares at the hankie in his hand. “I thought Morgan would want to play with me now he’s back.”

“Morgan’s a grown man,” I tell him gently. “I’m afraid it won’t be the same as before, no matter how much you might want it to be.”

“I know that, but…”

“But?” I nudge him.

He shrugs again. “I just wanted someone to be my friend,” he whispers.

My heart clenches. “Oh, lad.”

“I’m always on my own,” Artie mutters. “You and the others are off havin’ your secret meetings and stuff, and I’m?—”

“Lonely,” I finish for him.

“Don’t matter,” he replies, his tone laced with a faint tinge of belligerence as his jaw tightens defensively. “Used to it, ain’t I?”

“Arthur, why didn’t you say something before?”

“Sorry, Bertie.” He quickly deflates, curling in on himself a bit.

“No, lad.” I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” He frowns. “Why you sorry? You ain’t done nuffin’.”

“Sometimes, I think we forget just how young you are and how hard it must be for you.”

“Ain’t nuffin’ gonna change that though, is it? Ain’t no kids round ’ere my age, and even if more people come to the hotel, that bloke with the clipboard says we ain’t allowed to show ourselves.”

“I wish I knew how to make it better for you,” I say in frustration. “But we’ll figure out a way. I promise.”

He gives another sulky shrug.

“You should talk to Morgan, you know,” I say softly. “He may be an adult now, but he still cares about you, and even if he’s no longer interested in playing trains or hide and seek, he’s still your friend.”

Artie huffs. “Is he?”

“Yes.” I pluck the now wrinkled hankie from his hand and, cupping his chin, wipe his face with it. “He is.”

“Sorry for being such a crybaby,” he mumbles.

“Lad, there’s nothing wrong with having a good cry every now and then,” I tell him pointedly as I hand back the handkerchief. “But you really do need to put the furniture back.”

He nods and lifts the cloth, then blows his nose very loudly. Then he jumps down from the packing crate and shoves the soiled material in his pocket.

Sighing mournfully, he says, “I’ll go put the rooms back the way they was.”

“After you’ve done that”—I hold out my hand to him and grin—“would you like to come help me cause some mischief with the fleshies?”

He slips his smaller hand in mine, looking up at me with a grin.

“Would I ever.”