frankie [episodes 1-3]

-7-

I don't need to be told twice but Rebecca grabs my arm and pulls me around the mausoleum anyway. As she does I catch sight of the demon in the top hat slowly approaching.

"Quietly," hisses Jared. "He's not seen us yet. Let's not start a fight we can't win."

We half walk, half run through the shadows – darting from one tombstone to another; trying to stay out of sight. My heart thuds against my ribcage at every snap of a twig, every squelching footstep behind us. I dare a glance over my shoulder to see the demon sniffing around the mausoleum. He looks at the ground, frowns, then begins to walk in our direction. Jared shuffles me onwards.

As we hurry, staying clear of the path the demon is now walking along, the tall black gates of the cemetery come into view. We pause behind a memorial and share a look – understanding passing between us. Then Rebecca nods.

Without hesitation we sprint the final hundred metres, dodging tombs and hurdling over weathered headstones – not clue as to whether or not we're being pursued. My heart is racing as my feet hit the ground, the mud trying to swallow my footsteps. Panting we burst out through the gates and pile back into the hearse. Rebecca shoves the keys into the ignition and the engine roars. We race down the deserted street, past the only vehicle parked by the kerb; Mr Redwood's car.

In the rear-view mirror I see the demon burst out through the gates behind us but he's too late. We're already gone.

***

Mum swoops down on me in the hallway after Rebecca drops me off at home – a hurricane of neurotic desperation.

"It's so wonderful you're going out with your friends again, love," she says. "After, well, what happened before...your father and I were so worried about you, holed up in your room all the time. Is it Courtney? Are you friends again? It was so sad when the two of you fell out, you used to be so close."

Fell out?! Is she serious?!

I bite my tongue as mum looks at me expectantly. I can't deal with this now. I can't deal with her. Adrenaline is still pumping through my veins.

Demons killed my grave robbing teacher.

I turn away from and hurry up the stairs, jumping two at a time. Eleanor Master's file is tucked underneath my black jacket.

"Why are you so...well...muddy?" she calls after me, "Well, anyway, honey...your father and I...we're proud of you. And if you ever need to talk about..."

"Whatever, mum," I snap as I hurry out of sight.

I head into my bedroom and place the file on top of the other two files that now sit there. I look at them, resolve etched into my bones. We found out what happened to Daisy and Kerri. We will find out what happened to Eleanor too. I take a seat at my dressing table in front of them as the night's events reel through my mind like some kind of horror movie.

Mr Redwood was digging up a body.

Mr Redwood was supplying bodies to the curator.

Mr Redwood is dead.

I take deep breaths, trying to steady myself.

Did he kill Eleanor Masters? Or did he dig up her body?

I flip open the folder, averting my eyes from the first page as soon as I see those green, sparkling eyes staring out at me – they're so brimming with life. I can't bear it. My left leg belongs to her, not to me. It makes me feel sick.

I sharpen my resolution then continue with my investigation.

There's nothing new in the police report on the next page. It says her modelling agent was looked into after sending her to the place she was last seen at, but nothing could be proven.

As I read the last page though something jumps out at me – something we'd not noticed before. We'd been too distracted by the grainy picture of our grave robbing teacher.

Hurriedly I skirt across my room and pull my laptop out from under the bed. I Google the name of the last modelling event that Eleanor had been booked for.

It had been at a wax museum.

As I scroll down the page describing the event a darkness begins to fill my hollow insides.

One attendee comments on how well the girls at the event played their roles, marvelled at how still they managed to stand throughout the evening. Another says he could have sworn they were statues.

And then I see the photograph at the bottom of the article and my body turns cold. There's a line of girls, all beautiful, all staring vacantly out at the camera.

Eleanor is one of them.

Weirdly she looks taller than her previous photo, even though she is not wearing heels. A red dress snugly covers her body and her curly hair tumbles down her pale exposed neck. It's her eyes that draw my attention though – vacant, dull, glassy. Nothing like in the photograph on the first page of the file. And when I look at her smile it makes me feel sad; it's forced, unreal, painted on.

Immediately I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling as I find Rebecca's number in my contacts. She picks up after a few rings.

"Rebecca," I say, my voice shaking.

I can almost hear her frown on the other side of the line.

"Frankie? What is it?"

"The last place Eleanor Masters was seen alive was at a modelling event in a wax museum. Only I don't think she was alive. I think...I think she was already dead."