Read VIII for Free Online

and I’ve found out my uncles were murdered here when they were boys. Probably. Although they might have escaped. So – is one of them abroad now, waiting to invade? Or is his body hidden somewhere in this building? And if he is buried here, was it his ghost that I saw – was it his corpse, in the trunk?
    Only two hours have gone by since dinner. I can’t concentrate on reading and I’ve had to stop playing cards with Compton because I’m losing too much money. If my grandmother catches me scuffing about, she’ll hiss something about idle hands and give me a chunk of Latin to learn by heart. So I’ve sent Compton to ask if I’m allowed to visit the Tower’s collection of animals: the menagerie. It’s somewhere near the outer gates, and I think it has lions and leopards, kept in wooden cages. Compton says there used to be an elephant too, but it died.
    I hope he’ll be quick. I’m nervous on my own. It’s sunny outside but the rooms and passageways of the Tower are cold. I think maybe they don’t ever get warm. The shadows seem to collect in odd places, too, black as deep wells, and there is a worrying kind of pull when I walk near them, as if they could suck me in. When I’m alone, like now, I move from one room to the next, not with a princely stride but with a scuttle.
    Despite my fears, though, I’m exploring – padding up and down staircases and along dim passageways, trying every door that I pass. Most are locked. What am I looking for? In my head there’s a silly idea that this is an enchanted castle, and that something horrible is behind one of these doors, waiting for me to find it. I don’t know whether it’s more frightening to search for the horrible thing, or to hide in my room, imagining it.
    It’s odd, but I feel right now there are two ‘me’s. One me is being grown-up and sensible, and opening doors to prove to myself there’s nothing there. The other me has a horrid fascination: that me is opening doors hoping to see something frightening. Which is crazy.
    Still, while my imagination is filled with wispy-haired skeletons, bloodstained floors and grisly murder weapons, in reality, behind the few doors that I can open, I’m finding nothing but old trestle tables, broken stools and iron bedsteads.
    The only dead thing I’ve found so far is a mouse, lying on its side with its little scratchy paws bent up and its front teeth showing. When I saw it I knew straightaway it was dead, so when it started moving – shifting a little, this way and that – I wanted to scream. But soon I saw the reason: its stomach was full of maggots, crawling in and out through a hole in the skin. The maggots were making it move. I poked it with a bit of old kindling from the fireplace, then left it alone.
    Now, passing the entrance to a staircase, I find I’m almost at the end of a passageway. I’m not exactly sure where I am, but I think it’s somewhere north of where I started, somewhere close to the White Tower. Pushing open the last door before the passageway’s dead end, I look into a small chamber, where one narrow window lets in a slice of watery light.
    I wrinkle my nose because the room smells musty. In the far wall there’s another door – shut. Near it, some pieces of furniture are huddled together as if they’ve been shoved out of the way: a round table covered with worn black velvet, a bench, three stools and two folding chairs made of painted wood. The only other thing in the room is a rickety-looking portable altar near the window, with a place to kneel – complete with fraying cushion – and a picture hanging on the wall above it.
    The picture looks familiar – I want to have a closer look. I come fully into the room, closing the door softly behind me, and approach the altar. Yes, it’s a painting of the three nails used to fix Jesus to the cross, very like the one I’m carrying.
    I pull my picture out of my belt-pocket to compare. Looking at it, it occurs to me that perhaps I