Where on earth have you been gallivanting? Mrs. Hargreaves asked, eyeing her daughter Poppy as she trudged in from her stroll.
Poppy glanced at the hallway mirror. A cobweb clung to her hair. She peeled off her jeans, and a glossy acorn tumbled out of a pocket. She scooped it up, dashed to her bedroom, and slipped the nut under her pillow.
Off you go, wash up; Dadll be home soon and well have supper! her mum called from the kitchen.
Poppy plunged into the bathroom, feeling absolutely no appetite.
On the phone all day bad. Out for a walk bad again, she muttered gloomily.
Her mother, overhearing, shouted from the galley, If youre going to promenade politely, you wont get tangled in cobwebs!
Poppy filled the tub, lathering up. The mum was right, thought Poppy, but a solitary wander around the block was hardly thrilling. Especially after shed overheard two old ladies in the queue at the corner shop.
Mrs. Whitaker, that house on Elm Street has been haunted again! whispered one, her voice thick with superstition.
The word Elm was said with an extrasharp intonation. Poppy missed the reply, distracted by the cashier. The woman rang up her groceries, handed over the receipt, and nudged the lady behind her.
We should tell the police!
Poppy realised the cashier knew the local gossip.
Police? What can they do about a ghost? someone behind her snorted.
She packed the bags and left the shop. On the porch she spotted the two women waving their arms, deep in debate. Poppy rolled her eyes. Ghosts? In the twentyfirst century? she thought, shoving the chatter from her mind.
That evening she stepped onto her balcony. The block was a brandnew development, a tidy threestorey terrace about two hundred metres from the older fivestorey estates that were already three decades old. Those older houses had a tiny shop and the very elderly who loved to gossip about spectres. Around Poppys house the communal garden was still halffinished, but her windows faced a broad stretch of mature trees, and the constant roar of construction at the neighbouring tower was barely audible.
The area had once been earmarked for a park, but the plans were scrapped and houses sprang up instead, including the tower where Poppys parents now lived. A few stately poplars still lined the street, separating the new flats from a cluster of crumbling Victorian villas slated for demolitionthough, as it turned out, they were listed as heritage assets and fenced off for now.
From her balcony Poppy could just make out the rooftops of those old houses.
Maybe it was an estate before the war, she mused.
She remembered the shop gossip.
Probably a ghost has moved in! No way a spirit would settle in a skyscraper, she giggled to herself, picturing a witch perched on a roof.
Poppy, dinners ready! her mother called.
After supper Poppy watched a film with her dad, then argued with her parents. They wanted to transfer her to the nearest primary school to avoid the long bus ride. Poppy preferred to stay at her old school where all her friends were; she despised being the only one left behind in summer.
Youll make new friends at the new school, and you can sleep in later, her mum countered. Poppy whined until they finally sent her to bed, promising to think it over.
Before drifting off she slipped back onto the balcony, stared up at the dark treetops, and thought she saw three tiny glints flickering where the old roofs lay. It was as if someone was sending a signal.
She squinted, but the darkness closed in and the lights vanished.
Poppy, get to bed! her mum shouted.
Im going, Mum, she replied.
She lingered a few minutes, seeing nothing, then convinced herself it had been a trick of the eye.
The next morning Poppy woke to find her parents already at work. Another long day, she sighed. Visiting friends would have been nice, but none of her mates were in townsome were at the seaside, others with grandparents, and shed just moved, so there was no sea in sight.
She trudged back to the balcony, wondering what to do. The council estates didnt appeal to her, and the polished streets were still a ways off.
Then the shop gossip echoed in her head: Ghosts. Why not investigate that old house? She tugged on her jeans, found her battered trainers, and, halfin a dance, tumbled down the stairs to the ground floor. The lift was out of order, but that didnt bother her.
She slipped out of the building, rounded the corner, and headed for the trees.
Where are you off to, love? a voice called.
Poppy spun. Standing behind her was an oddly familiar old woman.
Where are you going? the woman repeated.
Out for a walk! Poppy snapped, though shed never liked chatting with strangers. Her parents always warned her about strangers taking you away, which seemed a bit much for a fiveyearold.
Just dont get lost, dear, the woman replied, eyeing her oddly.
Dont get lost? Poppy thought.
I wont, she said, and set off down the narrow path.
The woman watched her go, a tiny smile playing on her lips.
After five metres the woods closed in on all sides. Poppy turned left, then right; the orderly rows of trees shed seen from her balcony were nowhere to be seen. The path shed been following vanished behind a thicket, only to reappear a few paces ahead, as if coaxing her back toward the house.
She remembered the shop talk again and muttered, Well, Im not scared of any old wives tales, before plunging deeper into the thicket. The trail narrowed into a barelyvisible footpath, overgrown as if no one had trod it for years.
Two minutes later a massive fallen trunk blocked her waya gargantuan oak, perhaps a baobab in disguise. She tried to climb over, but dense hedges pressed in from both sides, leaving hardly any room to squeeze through.
Turn back? a voice seemed to whisper in the wind.
Poppy huffed, No way! I dont believe in ghosts, especially not in daylight.
She lay on her stomach, inching her way under a low branch. For a heartbeat she thought she was stuck, then wriggled free, shaking off leaves.
A gruff voice interrupted, Persistent, arent you?
She looked up to see the same old woman, now accompanied by a massive black cat the size of a small dog.
Hello, Poppy stammered.
The cat narrowed its eyes.
Persistent, it growled, though its tone was almost amused.
Poppy blinked. Cats dont speak, she reminded herself. Yet here was a huge, tuxedopatterned beast, looking more like a very large house cat than a mythical creature.
She tentatively reached out and stroked its head. The cat flinched, then let out a low purr.
Scary? the cat asked, its voice surprisingly gentle.
No, Poppy shook her head.
The cat glanced at the woman, who shrugged.
What now? the cat asked.
It seemed the pair were having a conversation. The cat lumbered toward a nearby tree, clawing at the bark furiously. Poppy felt a pang of irritation; she didnt like seeing animals angry for no reason.
Fine, be angry, she said to the cat, but Im leaving.
The cat halted, ears twitching.
Not afraid? it asked, a hint of surprise in its tone.
Not a hint! Poppy retorted with a mischievous grin.
The cats ears twitched again, then it sighed.
Good job.
It nudged her with its massive head. She petted its fur again.
Can I scratch your neck? the cat murmured, closing its eyes.
Poppy obliged, gently massaging the cats thick neck.
Lets go! the cat declared once satisfied.
Poppy glanced around. The woman had vanished.
Wheres she gone? she wondered aloud.
Home is just ahead, the cat replied, nudging her forward.
They walked together down a path that suddenly widened, the trees parting like courteous hosts. Ahead, a low fence of roughly hewn logs rose about five metres tall, their tops sharp.
A fort, eh? Poppy whispered.
She glanced at the cat.
Filming a movie? she asked.
The cat snorted, Brrr, move on, and trotted along the fence.
A few steps later, the cat halted.
Come through.
Poppy stared, then the logs in front of her seemed to melt away. She shook her head in disbelief. The cat slipped through the opening, and she followed. On the other side the logs reappeared, solid as before. She touched one; it was solid wood, still warm from the sun. Near the base lay another acorn, which she slipped into her pocket.
Im lost, Poppy muttered, eyes scanning for an exit.
The cat glanced back, looking a little bewildered.
I cant help right now, it replied, sounding oddly apologetic.
Oh, come on! she pleaded, determined to discover where they were.
The courtyard they entered was dim, as if evening had settled early. The cat led her to a high platform and leapt onto it, pushing open a heavy door. A flood of light spilled out. Poppy followed, stepping over the threshold.
The door was a single massive oak plank, its grain so thick it seemed a whole tree had been turned sideways. Intricate carvings swirled across its surface.
She crossed the doorway into a spacious room that felt more like a grand hall than any room shed known. No electric lights hung from the ceiling; instead, dozens of candles flickered on tall brass candelabras, casting a warm glow.
Like it, love? a voice asked. Poppy turned to see a short, bearded old man perched on a wooden bench.
Absolutely! she exclaimed.
No fibbing, the cat interjected, tail twitching.
The old man nodded approvingly.
No lies, no fear.
Poppy blushed. Why would I lie? I like it, thats all.
Sit, dear, the man said, gesturing to the bench.
She ran her hand over the carved wood, then sat. The table in the centre was empty at first, but when she looked again it was laden with plates of steaming dishes and a gleaming silver tureen.
Help yourself, the old man offered.
Poppy placed a slice of sponge cake before her. The cat lunged, snatched a whole pastry, and devoured it in one gulp.
She tasted the cake; it was filled with an unfamiliar berry that was delightfully sweet. She sipped a fragrant drink from a tall goblet and felt utterly satisfied.
More? the cat asked.
No, thanks. Im stuffed! she replied.
Not greedy, the old man chuckled.
She glanced out the window; darkness pressed against the panes, as if night had fallen the instant shed stepped inside.
How long have I been here? she wondered aloud. Mum must be worried!
She rose, thanked the hosts politely.
Thank you, I must head home. Mum will be fretting! she said.
Brave, kind, and not greedy, the old man smiled. I have a gift for you. Ask for anything you desire.
Poppy thought for a moment. Shed always wanted a kitten; her parents had promised one once the new flat was ready, but the move and renovations kept pushing it away.
Id like a kitten, she said, sighing.
Anything else? A treasure, a magical mirror? the old man teased.
She laughed. No, thank you. Just the kitten, please.
As you wish, the old man agreed, turning to the cat. Take her, dear.
The cat padded over, nudging a fluffy orange kitten toward Poppy. The little furball purred and nuzzled her cheek.
Bye! the cat called as it squeezed back through the doorway, which closed behind it with a soft thud.
Poppy stepped out onto a sundappled path, the trees parting to reveal her street and her own house beyond. She turned, halfexpecting to see the cat, but it was gone.
Was that a dream? she mused, licking her lips, still tasting the berry drink. She reached into her pocket and felt the acorn.
She sighed, pocketing the nut, and headed home.
Later, a knock sounded at the front door. Poppy hurried out of the bathroom, fresh and wrapped in a soft robe.
Dads home! she chirped, drying her hair.
Her father entered, cradling a ginger kitten as orange as autumn leaves.
Look what Ive brought! he said, handing her the tiny feline.
Ill call her Muffin! Poppy declared, beaming.
She spent the evening fussing over Muffin, who behaved as though hed always lived in the flat, trotting from room to room, devouring milk, and purring contentedly.
When bedtime came, Muffin leapt onto her pillow and let out a loud, satisfied rumble.
Good night, sweetheart! he seemed to say.
Good night, Mum! Poppy whispered as the bedroom door clicked shut.
Muffins soft purrs filled the room, and as she drifted off, a faint voice seemed to echo, Dont lose the acorn
