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Chapter Four
The Girl in the Photograph

   The occupant of the next house on Billy’s street was a small, lean, blotchy-faced man in his sixties wearing a tatty, old jacket and a flat, cloth cap. He wasn’t very welcoming.

   “Yes, what do you want?” he demanded to know.

   Billy quickly introduced himself and handed him one of the leaflets. After reading it, the old man softened a little and invited Billy inside. His name was Mr Alistair Cribbins and he sometimes worked as a handyman in the neighbourhood, trimming hedgerows and repairing leaking pipes.

   “I know how it feels to lose a pet,” he said. “My own pooch, Hendrix, went missing in 1967 and it was the saddest day of my life. I should have kept a closer eye on him, but I was performing in a rock band at the time. We were called the Dream Gatherers, by the way. Have you ever heard of us?”

   Billy said he hadn’t and followed the man into a small, cramped sitting room that resembled a junk shop he had once visited in London. There was even a rusty, old bicycle wheel propped against the wall next to an electric guitar with missing strings. Half-empty whiskey bottles, unpaid bills and out-of-date betting slips were strewn haphazardly across the coffee table.

   “We even performed at The Ship and Whale pub one evening,” Mr Cribbins was saying, sitting down on an armchair and reaching for a scrapbook on the table. “What a terrific night that was. Nearly every seat in the pub was taken, and a member of the audience even stayed for the encore.” He handed Billy the scrapbook. “If we’d had more practice, I’m sure we could have been bigger than the Beatles,” he said with a long and nostalgic sigh.

   Billy sat down on another chair and quickly leafed through the scrapbook. It was full of very old snapshots of fresh-faced young men with mops of long, black hair. Some of them were wearing suits.

   “Very interesting,” Billy said, trying to be polite. “But which one’s you?”

   “I’m the one playing the electric guitar,” Mr Cribbins said, pointing at one of the pictures.

   Billy didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see a resemblance at all.

   Then he remembered the missing children, and hurriedly closed the scrapbook.

   “What can you tell me about the missing children, Mr Cribbins?” he asked. “What do you think is happening to them?”

   For several moments, the old man did not speak, then sat back and fidgeted nervously on his chair.

   “It’s happening again, isn’t it,” he eventually said, glancing at the window fearfully. “Cats, dogs and children are beginning to disappear.”

   Billy nodded his head and told Mr Cribbins about Jeremy Sponge and Victoria Spike, the two children who had recently vanished.

   ‘Dreadful business,” the old man continued, slowly shaking his head. “There are rumours of an eerie, supernatural fog that rolls in from the sea, smothers the children and then swallows them up alive. ”

   Feeling nervous, Billy looked around the room. A cold draft of air was beginning to make him shiver, and he had the strangest feeling he was being watched.

   “However, I don’t believe such nonsense myself,” Mr Cribbins was saying. “People watch far too many horror films these days and their minds have been muddled by the violence.”

   Billy froze. He was staring at a large, black and white photograph hanging above the fireplace. He recognised the style immediately. It was another picture by Diane Honeydew, the Cloudberry photographer, and it showed an old-fashioned ice cream parlour overlooking Cloudberry beach.

   Slowly, Billy rose to his feet, padded across the room and stood in front of the picture.

Like the photograph on Mrs Rumblefish’s wall, it had been taken at night-time and foam-flecked waves were crashing violently against the cliff.

   Then he gasped and put a hand up to cover his mouth.

   In the photograph, a young girl had mysteriously shimmered into view. It was the same girl he’d seen in Mrs Rumblefish’s picture a few moments ago. Whether she’d been hiding behind the ice cream parlour or had appeared from out of shot, Billy couldn’t tell. Her hair was shining like silver in the moonlight and she was clutching a rag doll against her chest.

   “Help us, Billy!” she said, waving her ghostly-white hand. “You must help us, please!”

To be continued...

Description

Chapter Four
The Girl in the Photograph

   The occupant of the next house on Billy’s street was a small, lean, blotchy-faced man in his sixties wearing a tatty, old jacket and a flat, cloth cap. He wasn’t very welcoming.

   “Yes, what do you want?” he demanded to know.

   Billy quickly introduced himself and handed him one of the leaflets. After reading it, the old man softened a little and invited Billy inside. His name was Mr Alistair Cribbins and he sometimes worked as a handyman in the neighbourhood, trimming hedgerows and repairing leaking pipes.

   “I know how it feels to lose a pet,” he said. “My own pooch, Hendrix, went missing in 1967 and it was the saddest day of my life. I should have kept a closer eye on him, but I was performing in a rock band at the time. We were called the Dream Gatherers, by the way. Have you ever heard of us?”

   Billy said he hadn’t and followed the man into a small, cramped sitting room that resembled a junk shop he had once visited in London. There was even a rusty, old bicycle wheel propped against the wall next to an electric guitar with missing strings. Half-empty whiskey bottles, unpaid bills and out-of-date betting slips were strewn haphazardly across the coffee table.

   “We even performed at The Ship and Whale pub one evening,” Mr Cribbins was saying, sitting down on an armchair and reaching for a scrapbook on the table. “What a terrific night that was. Nearly every seat in the pub was taken, and a member of the audience even stayed for the encore.” He handed Billy the scrapbook. “If we’d had more practice, I’m sure we could have been bigger than the Beatles,” he said with a long and nostalgic sigh.

   Billy sat down on another chair and quickly leafed through the scrapbook. It was full of very old snapshots of fresh-faced young men with mops of long, black hair. Some of them were wearing suits.

   “Very interesting,” Billy said, trying to be polite. “But which one’s you?”

   “I’m the one playing the electric guitar,” Mr Cribbins said, pointing at one of the pictures.

   Billy didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see a resemblance at all.

   Then he remembered the missing children, and hurriedly closed the scrapbook.

   “What can you tell me about the missing children, Mr Cribbins?” he asked. “What do you think is happening to them?”

   For several moments, the old man did not speak, then sat back and fidgeted nervously on his chair.

   “It’s happening again, isn’t it,” he eventually said, glancing at the window fearfully. “Cats, dogs and children are beginning to disappear.”

   Billy nodded his head and told Mr Cribbins about Jeremy Sponge and Victoria Spike, the two children who had recently vanished.

   ‘Dreadful business,” the old man continued, slowly shaking his head. “There are rumours of an eerie, supernatural fog that rolls in from the sea, smothers the children and then swallows them up alive. ”

   Feeling nervous, Billy looked around the room. A cold draft of air was beginning to make him shiver, and he had the strangest feeling he was being watched.

   “However, I don’t believe such nonsense myself,” Mr Cribbins was saying. “People watch far too many horror films these days and their minds have been muddled by the violence.”

   Billy froze. He was staring at a large, black and white photograph hanging above the fireplace. He recognised the style immediately. It was another picture by Diane Honeydew, the Cloudberry photographer, and it showed an old-fashioned ice cream parlour overlooking Cloudberry beach.

   Slowly, Billy rose to his feet, padded across the room and stood in front of the picture.

Like the photograph on Mrs Rumblefish’s wall, it had been taken at night-time and foam-flecked waves were crashing violently against the cliff.

   Then he gasped and put a hand up to cover his mouth.

   In the photograph, a young girl had mysteriously shimmered into view. It was the same girl he’d seen in Mrs Rumblefish’s picture a few moments ago. Whether she’d been hiding behind the ice cream parlour or had appeared from out of shot, Billy couldn’t tell. Her hair was shining like silver in the moonlight and she was clutching a rag doll against her chest.

   “Help us, Billy!” she said, waving her ghostly-white hand. “You must help us, please!”

To be continued...