All the Bad Apples by Moïra Fowley-Doyle

Author:Moïra Fowley-Doyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2019-08-26T16:00:00+00:00

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Less than an hour later, the woman stopped unceremoniously just off the main road and told us we’d arrived. We tumbled out of the car and she gave a brisk nod, then shot out of sight.

“Well,” said Ida, when the roar of the car had faded into the distance, “that was weird.”

“That was weird,” I agreed. “And this is not what I expected either.”

This was our destination: a big gray building that looked like it might have once been a factory, and a dilapidated red-brick section next to it that looked somewhat more like an old boarding school. It was surrounded by a tall iron fence, the gates unlocked. The windows were high, only holes in the stone, the ones at ground level boarded up with thick sheets of metal. But the front door was open: a great black mouth.

The streetlamps on the road opposite shone eerily. It was past midnight. The roads were deserted. Only the wind whistling through the empty windows, small rustlings in the grass and weeds of a garden that seemed too scared to grow inside the old factory. Or maybe they’d been burned away. It looked like there were building works going on during the daytime. As if they planned to tear the place down or build it up, start anew.

“Okay. This is it.” I creaked open the heavy gates and walked toward the derelict building in the darkness.

“That sister of yours sure liked her creepy, abandoned places,” Finn remarked.

“Yeah.” Ida twisted her mouth around. “What’s with that?”

But I just walked across the garden. I didn’t hear the others follow me. When I finally turned around, Cale was biting her lip and Finn was frowning. Ida hung back.

“It’s just a building,” Cale said as if to reassure herself. “There’s nobody here but us.”

“And if you’re wrong?” said Finn. “I mean, this place really reeks of ghosts. And not the quiet family kind.”

Cale and I exchanged a look. She took a box of sea salt out of the front pocket of her bag and shook it. “We just pour a ring of it around us and make sure it doesn’t break.”

“Fuck,” Ida muttered. “Don’t let the salt circle break. Fuck fuckidy fuck.”

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