Where have you been waddling off to? asked her mother, eyebrows lifting as Eleanor Parker shuffled back from her stroll.
Eleanor glanced at the hallway mirror. A cobweb clung to her hair. She peeled off her jeans, and an acorn tumbled from a pocket. She snatched it up, trotted to her bedroom and slipped the nut under her pillow.
Off you go, wash up; your dadll be home soon and well have dinner instructed her mum.
Eleanor plunged into the bathroom, appetite nowhere in sight.
On the phonebad. Out for a walkbad again, she muttered gloomily.
Her mother, apparently eavesdropping on the inner monologue, called from the kitchen:
When you saunter about the street, you dont come back covered in spider silk!
Eleanor filled the tub, poured in a cloud of bubbles. She thought, Mums right, but wandering alone is dreadfully boring. Especially after overhearing two ladies in the shop queue.
Mrs. Wilkinson, theres something spooky in that old house again! whispered one, her voice tinged with glee.
The word spooky hung in the air with a curious lilt. The second old lady answered, but Eleanor missed it, distracted by the cashier.
The cashier rang up Eleanors groceries, handed over the receipt and said to the woman ahead of her:
We ought to tell the police!
Eleanor realised the cashier was a local, aware of the gossip.
Police? What can they do about a pesky ghost? shouted a voice from behind her.
She packed the groceries into a bag and left the shop. On the doorstep she caught sight of the women gesticulating wildly. Eleanor rolled her eyes at the melodrama of spooks in the 21st century and pushed the chatter from her mind.
That evening she stepped onto the flats balcony. The building was newly built; the neighboring fivestorey blocks, two hundred metres away, were thirtyyearold. They housed a small convenience store and the chatty retirees who loved to talk about apparitions. The surrounding area was still under development, but Eleanors windows faced a tidy line of mature trees, and the constant roar of construction trucks from the upcoming tower was barely audible.
Originally the plot had been earmarked for a park, but plans changed. Some trees were felled for houses, including the tower where Eleanors parents had recently bought a flat. A few towering poplars still separated the newer homes from a cluster of very old, slatedfordemolition buildings thatthanks to their heritage statuswere now fenced off and left to linger.
Peering over the treetops, Eleanor caught the faint outline of a crumbling roof.
Perhaps an old manor from before the war? she mused.
She recalled the shop gossip.
Must be a ghost, then! she laughed. No ghost would live in a highrise.
The first spirit that popped into her head was the classic witch. She imagined a broom parked on the manors roof and snorted.
Eleanor, dinners ready! called her mother.
After dinner, a film, and a chat with her dad, a debate erupted. Her parents wanted to move her to the nearest school to avoid the long commute; Eleanor preferred the old school where all her friends were. Its not like Im the only one wandering around in summer, she whined. Her mother tried to argue that the new school would mean later bedtimes, but Eleanors plaintive cries finally won her a postponement of the decision.
Before bed she returned to the balcony, eyes drifting to the dark treetops. Suddenly, something glinted in the shadowsonce, twice, three timesright where the ancient roof had shown earlier, as if sending a signal.
She squinted, but the night thickened and the glints vanished.
Eleanor, off to bed! her mother called.
Im going, Mum, Eleanor answered, lingering a few minutes longer, though she saw nothing.
She convinced herself it was just imagination.
The next morning, the house was quiet; her parents were already at work. Eleanor sighed, Another long day. I could visit my friends, but none are in townsome are at the seaside, some with grandparents, and Im stuck here because of the move. Lovely. She grimaced, stepped onto the balcony, and wondered what to do. The nearby terraced houses bored her, and the newly paved streets were still a distance away.
Then the shop gossip popped back: Spooky! She thought, Maybe I should check that old house. A fence without holes, after all, was still a fence.
She pulled on her jeans, dug out her battered trainers, and, almost dancing, slid down the stairs from her twentiethfloor flat. The lift was out of order, but that didnt bother her. She sprinted out, rounded the block and headed toward the trees.
Where are you off to, little miss? a voice called.
She turned. Standing behind her was an old crone, unmistakably the witch from the stories.
Eleanor froze, then shook her head, staring again. The crone seemed to grow younger before Eleanors eyes.
Fewer old women in the shop, maybe? Eleanor thought.
Where are you going? the crone asked again.
Out for a walk! Eleanor snapped. What, cant I?
Her parents always warned her about strangers, claiming they might take you away. At five, she wasnt exactly a kidnapping risk, but she was wary of new acquaintances.
Fine, fine, just dont get lost, love the crone replied, eyeing her oddly.
Girl, Eleanor muttered under her breath.
I wont get lost, Eleanor declared, marching onto the narrow path.
The crone watched her go, a sly smile on her lips.
After a few metres, Eleanor looked back; the crone had vanished. She shrugged and kept moving. The trees now surrounded her on all sides. She turned right, then left. It was oddback on her balcony shed seen a tidy, old hedge bordering the houses, but here the rows were gone.
The path shed taken, which had seemed straight, now disappeared behind a wall of trunks. It felt as if the ground was swallowing her. She turned back, walked a few steps, and the path reappeared, as if coaxing her toward the manor.
She remembered the shop gossip again: Ugh, this is creepy. She laughed at the thought of ghosts and pressed on deeper into the thicket. The trail thinned to a barely perceptible track, as if no one had trod it for ages.
Two minutes later a massive fallen tree blocked her waya gargantuan oak, almost a baobab in size. She tried to climb over, but dense brambles flanked the path on either side, forming an impenetrable hedge.
Should I turn back? she wondered, hearing a phantom voice in her head urging her to retreat.
Nope! she shouted to herself. I dont believe in ghosts, especially not in daylight!
She lay on her stomach, wriggling under a low branch. For a heartbeat she thought she was stuck, then scrambled out, shaking off leaves.
Persistent little thing a voice sighed.
She looked up. The crone stood there again, this time with a colossal black cat at her side.
Hello, Eleanor stammered.
The cat narrowed its eyes.
Persistent, it growled softly.
Eleanor blinked. Cats dont talkexcept in stories, and stories are well, not real.
The crone smirked, as if pleased with the cats comment. The cat, enormousthink a Great British Shorthair the size of a small dogstretched, revealing massive fangs, then puffed up his fur and hissed.
Eleanor, oddly unafraid, reached out and patted the beasts head.
He recoiled, then huffed again.
Scary? the cat asked.
No, Eleanor shook her head.
He seemed a touch disappointed. He glanced at the crone.
What now? he asked.
The pair conversed in low growls and grunts. The cat leapt at a nearby trunk, clawing furiously. Eleanor sensed his annoyance.
Fine, be angry, she said to the cat, but Im off.
He paused, eyes narrowing.
Not scared? he purred sarcastically.
Eleanor replied with a mischievous grin, Not a drop of it! The cat, expecting a hiss, merely snorted and then, surprisingly, nudged her forward.
Lets go, he said, pushing her gently with his massive head.
They walked along a path that suddenly widened, the trees parting like courteous gentlemen. Ahead, a low fence of timber logs rose, each log about five metres tall and sharpened at the top.
A fort, eh? Eleanor mused.
She glanced at the cat.
Filming a movie?
The cat huffed disdainfully.
Brrr. Move on, he declared, strolling along the fence.
A few steps later he halted.
Come through.
Where? Eleanor asked, spotting an opening.
The logs before her seemed to melt away. She shook her head, bewildered, as the cat slipped through the gap. She followed, feeling the logs snap back into place behind her. She touched one; it was solid wood, ancient, with moss curling at its base. Near the fence lay another acorn. She slipped it into her pocket, wondering how shed get back out.
Ill guide you, the cat said, looking confused.
No, thank you, Eleanor replied, curiosity spiking. Lets see where this leads.
The courtyard beyond was dim, like twilight despite the hour. The cat led her to a high landing and leapt onto it, pushing open a door that burst with light. Eleanor followed, stepping through a doorway made of a single, massive plank, its grain so thick it seemed a tree trunk itself, carved with ornate patterns.
She entered a spacious roomwhat she later called a parlour. No electric lights glowed; instead, dozens of candles flickered from tall candlesticks, casting a warm glow over the wooden walls, table, and benches, all intricately carved.
Like it, love? asked a short, bearded old man who appeared from the shadows.
Absolutely! Eleanor exclaimed.
Not lying, the cat interjected dryly.
The old man nodded.
No lies, no fear.
Eleanor, slightly offended at the implication, replied, Im not lying; I like it.
Dont be cross, dear, have a seat, the man said, gesturing to a bench.
She settled, the table before her soon filled with plates of unfamiliar pastries and a steaming cup. She placed a slice of cake on her plate; the cat, meanwhile, swiped an entire tarts with a single swipe and devoured it in one gulp.
She tasted the cakeberries shed never heard of, sweet and lush. She sipped from the ornate cup, feeling wholly satisfied.
More, the cat offered, but Eleanor shook her head.
Thanks, Im stuffed! she replied.
Not greedy, the old man commented.
She glanced out the window; darkness lay beyond, as if night had fallen instantly.
How long have I been here? she thought, a hint of panic. Mum must be worried.
She rose, thanked the hosts politely.
Thank you! I should be home; Mum will be fretting.
Brave, not greedy, kind, the old man said. I have a gift for you. Ask for anything.
Eleanor hesitated. Her secret wish? Shed dreamed of a kitten. Her parents had promised a cat once their new flat was sorted, but the move and renovations delayed everything.
Id like a kitten, she whispered.
Thats all? No exotic gems, silk dresses, or magic mirrors? the old man teased.
She chuckled.
No, thank you. Nothing more.
Very well, a kitten you shall have, the old man declared, turning to the cat, who was still polishing off crumbs. See our guest out, Mog.
Mog, the massive cat, licked his paws, then flung open the door with a paw swipe.
Right, off you go! he said, nudging her toward the doorway.
Eleanor stepped through, but before she could utter a goodbye, the parlour vanished. She found herself on a bright path, trees lining the sides, and beyond them her flats street. She turned, but Mog was gone. She shook her head.
Was that a dream? she wondered, tasting the lingering sweetness of the mysterious drink.
She reached into her pocket, feeling the acorn.
A sigh escaped her as she headed home.
Later that evening, a knock sounded at the door. Eleanor rushed out of the bath, thrilled.
Dads home! she cheered, wrapping a towel around herself.
Sweetie, look what Ive got! her father announced, holding out a ginger kitten, fur as orange as autumn leaves.
Ill call him Mog, Eleanor declared.
The rest of the night was spent cuddling the new kitten, who behaved as if hed always belonged there, prowling the flat, munching milk, and finally curling onto her pillow, purring loudly.
Good night, Eleanor! she whispered as the door closed.
The kittens soft rumble filled the room, and just before she drifted off, a faint voice seemed to echo:
Dont lose the acorn
