Chapter 1

The Tomb

Hi. My name’s Bradley Atkins. I’m eleven years old and I’m cursed.

So, you want to know what it’s like to be cursed? Weirdly, it’s kinda fun. Not always. I mean, it is a curse. But it does have some perks.

And guess what? Before all this happened, ‘I’m cursed’ used to be one of my favourite sayings.

Like the time I threw my school bag out of the second storey history class’s window. I was trying to be cool. No one told me the head teacher’s car was parked underneath.

I yelled ‘I’m cursed’ then.

Or the time me and my best mate, Josh, secretly made throwing stars in metal work and hurled them against the shed at break. Except I missed and impaled Mrs Munroe’s left bum cheek. Somehow, I managed to get away with that one by melting into the crowd in the confusion. Perhaps I’m a ninja after all, just like Josh said as we laughed about it on the way home.

I said it when Mum and Dad told me we were moving to Bledgley (population 11245, soon to be 11248). I said it when they packed my life into five medium-sized cardboard boxes. And I said it again as I sat on my bed, in my empty new room, feeling about as low as I’d ever felt.

No more lying on Josh’s bedroom floor playing PlayStation for hours, no more adventures on our bikes, no more of anything really.

You might be thinking, he doesn’t seem very cursed, but you don’t know the half of it. Like I said at the start. My name’s Bradley Atkins, I’m eleven years old and I’m actually cursed.

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The paint in my new room is pale pink, the walls cracked and worn. The carpet is deep blue and too thick, so you have to shove the door hard to open it. Dad says it’s an easy fix.

But things aren’t always so easy to fix.

There’s nothing else in here except my bed, some empty shelves, and a stack of boxes.

I pick my phone up and text Josh. He comes online straight away, then he’s gone without replying.

My stomach twists. Maybe he’s just busy.

His mum and dad wanted him to get into the grammar school instead of Wolfric High. His results are due any day. I should know which day, but I don’t.

Neither of us wanted to go to Wolfric. I mean even the name’s creepy right? And terrifying tales of terror were whispered through the halls of Castlelands Primary in our final year - heads down toilets, packed lunches stolen, books trampled.

My dad walks in with another box. He gets stuck between the door and the wall and for a second reminds me of a beetle on its back. Then he hunches forward and shoves his way through.

“I’ll look at that later,” he says, putting the box down next to me.

He won’t. But that’s ok.

I pick at the tape on the box.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says.

My stomach wriggles like a nest of snakes. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. We’ve had it three hundred thousand times before anyway, so I paste a smile on and say, “I know.”

“Change is part of life, Brad.”

“I know, I know!”

“Great! That’s the spirit. Let’s make this house a home.”

He’s halfway out the door when he stops and reverses. “In a bit we’ll get that new sword we promised you?” He winks. “It’ll get us out of unpacking.”

A smile tweaks my mouth. “Sure. And it’s called a foil, Dad.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He looks like he’s about to say something else then leaves.

Footsteps fade.

At least there’s a Fencing Club here in Bledgley. A real sword-fighting club. At least this place has got one interesting thing. Especially as the guy who runs it likes to call himself Sir Darren De Silva. He’s either a dude or a nutcase. I’ll find out on Tuesday night.

Perhaps I’ll make some friends there.

Maybe some enemies too.

It’s two weeks til I start at my new school - Bledgley Academy - and I never thought I’d wish I was going to Wolfric High.

I close my eyes. Perhaps if I concentrate really hard my life will magically return to normal, but when I open them the carpet is still blue and the walls pukingly pink. Mum’s voice floats in my head, “Lick of paint’ll fix it all Brad. You’ll see.”

Sighing I rip the tape from the box. Inside are my telescope, my books and my PlayStation. Tucked down the side is a package wrapped in white tissue paper. The sight of it almost brings tears but I swallow them down.

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My trophy.

A masked fencer in gold, frozen in the lunge position; their foil thin as a needle. And underneath a plaque:

Bradley Atkins

Askwith District

Junior Fencing Champion

This had meant everything to me a few weeks ago.

I chuck it onto the bed and go to stare out the window. We’ve got a bigger garden here, and it backs onto some woods. Beyond the trees, not too far away, is a large house: Bledgley Manor. That’s where fencing club is.

An idea hits me, sending a rush of excitement through my body. It’s time for a little James Bond style investigation. After all, a good agent always scopes out their target.

I step over to the box, pull out my telescope – The Spyscope 3000 – set it up and put my eye to the eyepiece.

Close up the Manor House looks old and unloved. It’s kind of creepy and intriguing at the same time, like something out of a horror movie. I almost expect to see a faceless figure at one of the upper windows. What I actually see is tatty curtains with white flowers on them.

I move the telescope gently downwards. Looking at things this close means tiny adjustments – it’s supposed to be for looking at the moon and that’s 384400km away.

Downstairs there’s a large room with blue gym mats stacked by the window. That’ll be where class is then. I can’t see much else from here so I tilt the telescope further to check out the garden.

Green fills the eyepiece and I adjust the focus.

A path runs through the garden at the back of the Manor House and I follow its line.

There’s a graveyard. Fenced off.

It doesn’t seem very big, but I can’t see all of it cause the trees get in the way. What I can see is a couple of rows of very old gravestones surrounding a small, square building. It’s about the size of our garden shed, but made of greying, moss covered stone.

An old tomb.

It seems more in focus than everything else, like when you watch a film in 3D and one bit jumps out the screen at you. I lift my eye from the eyepiece and blink.

When I look again my fingers tighten around the telescope and a gasp escapes me. There’s a man coming out of the tomb. I lift my head and rub my eyes. I must be seeing things. But when I look again he’s still there. I hold my breath, scared he’ll hear me, even though I know that’s ridiculous.

I can’t see his face ‘cause he’s turned away from me, but he’s got jet black hair, is wearing fencing whites and carrying a foil. Slowly he begins to walk up towards the Manor House. His shoulders droop, his feet drag. I follow him, my heart fluttering with every creak of the telescope’s movement.

He makes his way up to the Manor House, rummages around inside a pot near the back door, opens the door and disappears inside.

I tilt the telescope back to the tomb. The door has been left slightly open.

My brain fizzes with excitement. This is definitely worth investigating. Perhaps Boring-old-Bledgley isn’t so dull after all.

Pulling my kit bag from under the bed I unzip it then remove my foil. It’s beautiful. The handle is deep green and curved to fit the fencer’s hand. This joins to a round metal guard and from this extends the foil - the blade - itself. I hold it for a moment, remembering how together we beat Simon Williams to become club champion. My fingers tighten around the green rubber grip while I run my other hand down the squared off, blunt blade to the red rubber safety cap at the end.

If the tomb dweller took his, I’m taking mine.

I slip downstairs, avoiding the lounge where my parents are arguing about where to put Dad’s cactus collection and make my way along the hall, into the kitchen and out to the garden. Tucking my foil through a belt loop I head into the woods.

Sunlight streams through the branches casting shadows on the floor that twist and writhe.

I reach the edge of the graveyard after only a couple of minutes. It’s surrounded by a high iron fence but I find a place where someone, or perhaps some animal, has dug underneath.

It’ll be tight.

I get down low, dig my nails into the dirt, and wriggle through the gap. My jumper catches on one of the rusted iron railings, tearing a hole in the sleeve. “Fart biscuits,” I hiss.

This one’s new. Mum’ll go ape.

As I approach the tomb the world seems to shrink, to become more intense. The whizz of the cars on the main road that runs past the Manor House is as loud as if I was stood on the pavement waiting to cross; the birds in the trees tweet and whistle like they’re sat on my shoulder.

The stones of the tomb are huge, ancient and worn. They’re covered in bizarre swirls that if looked at sideways seem to shift and flicker. I stop and pull at the loose threads on my sleeve.

Black seeps from a crack where the thick stone door has been left ajar. Not the black of night, but the black that lives under stairs and waits down wells.

I step forwards and push.

The door swings in without a sound.

An ancient door works better than mine. Says a lot about the house I’m supposed to call home.

I linger in the doorway. The stones are cold and the air smells like the corner of our old garden, the one where Dad used to dump the grass cuttings.

I adjust my foil, then take my phone out and turn the torch on. The beam shows a cobblestone floor with a gravestone set into the middle of it. In front of the gravestone is a small white vase with a gold rim, and inside this, a single stem of white, bell-shaped flowers. They’re just like the flower on the curtains I saw through my telescope. I look up to the Manor House and a buzz of nervous excitement runs through me.

No one’s around. I’ll just take a quick look.

I take a deep breath then step through the doorway.

It’s like someone hit the mute button. All the sounds of trees, cars in the distance, birds tweeting, they’re gone. I stick my head out and the sounds begin again.

Ok. The world didn’t end. Good.

But back inside it’s deathly quiet.

I draw my foil and lay it down near the vase. The smell of the flowers is sweet, a little like Mum’s perfume.

An unwanted spike of fear makes me look round, suddenly scared the door will shut and lock me in. But nothing’s changed.

Chill Brad.

I shine my torch onto the gravestone. The words have been smoothed away to almost nothing but I can just make out the numbers:

621 - 642AD

The torchlight bounces off the gold rimmed edge of the vase and hits the stone. My mouth hangs open as letters begin to appear above the numbers. They appear from nowhere, filling with light like dips in the pavement on a rainy day. My heartbeat rises as I touch a hand to my chest and read:

Here lies Sir Darren De Silva.

To end a dishonourable life with honour

Is to have lived an honourable life.

That name. The same as my new fencing teacher. Must be an old relative buried here. The flowers make sense, sort of, but why bring his foil?

The light from the letters is fading now, the words disappearing. My fingers touch the stone. It’s smooth and cool.

I grab my foil then stand on shaky legs and shine the torch around. There’s nothing but a pile of dead leaves in one corner.

I step out into the sunshine and blink at the brightness. A deep thunk from behind makes my heart leap and I turn to find the tomb door shut. Frowning, I push it but it doesn’t move. I push harder. It won’t open.

There’s no way that door just shut by itself, it must weigh a tonne. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, all the way to my toes.

My phone beeps and a whoosh of hope travels through me. It’ll be Josh. He’ll go mad for this. But it’s not Josh, it’s only Mum:

Where are you? Dad’s dishing up lunch.

Just in the garden. I text back. See you in a minute.

With a last look at the tomb door, I sigh and slip my phone back into my pocket. Did all that really happen, or I am so desperate for fun I’m imagining crazy stuff? I shut my eyes and the words from the gravestone glow in my mind. Then my stomach rumbles breaking the spell and I remember that Dad’s doing his chicken pie. Suddenly tired, my shoulders droop and my feet drag as I head towards the hole under the fence that leads back to a house that isn’t quite home.