To escape the dangers of wartime London, Millie has been sent away to Wickford Hall, but what lurks there is far more sinister than anything war might bring.
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THERE'S SOMETHING WICKED STALKING WICKFORD HALL...
As war rages on, Mildred Cunningham...
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The bombs screamed as they fell. The sound curdled the blood in her veins as Millie ran through the streets of London. Sweat poured off her despite the chill in the autumn air. She didn't dare stop. There were other places to take cover, but she had to make it home. If the worst were to happen, she wanted to be with her family.
The air was already thick with dust, but she could still see the German planes howling overhead, crisscrossing the sky as they pummelled the city below. It was her father's job to inspect the salvaged wreckage, and he said the Germans engineered the bombs to make that shrieking whistle as a way to terrorise them. Psychological warfare, he'd called it.
Her only comfort was that she could hear the bombs at all.
They said that if you could hear their screams, then the bomb wasn't meant for you.
They were wrong.
Gasping and panting, she made it to her street, so close that she could see the yellow-painted front door of her family's row house. Her lungs were burning with every breath, her feet aching in her shoes, and the muscles in her legs begged for rest. But she couldn't stop, not yet, not when she was so close...
The screaming intensified, and then there was a boom. The house next to her was engulfed in a massive ball of flame. Time seemed to slow as the force and heat of it washed over her. All she could see was fire. The earth gave way beneath her feet, and she found herself soaring through the air—
A sharp crack reverberated through the desk.
Millie shot up in her seat. Her hand was numb from where her head had been resting on it, and her dark curls were stuck in the line of drool that ran down her chin. Looming over her was a tiny, withered nun, her heavily wrinkled face fixed into a frightening scowl. In her hand was a yardstick, brandishing it like a weapon as if she might hit Millie with it next.
Knowing Sister Marion, she just might.
"Were we boring you, Miss Mildred?" the haggard old nun snapped, her dark, beady stare boring holes into Millie's soft brown eyes.
"N-Not at all, Sister," Millie said, blinking as she averted her gaze to the desk before her. A small drop of drool had collected on the open page of her bible. She swiped at her face, feeling the heat gathering in her cheeks. Her fingers lingered on the scar trailing along her hairline before she pushed her hair forward to cover it.
"I should hope not," Sister Marion replied, "You are very lucky to be welcomed into such a prestigious school in the midst of war. You would be wise to take advantage of your opportunities."
Welcomed. The corner of Millie's mouth quirked up. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't dare to lest she meet the end of Sister Marion's yardstick.
A murmur travelled through the room. Millie snuck a glance.
Every single student in the room had turned to look at her. They all regarded her with the same cold, disapproving stare as if she was something freshly pulled from the sewers. Millie sank into her seat, hoping the stinging burn now spreading down her neck would set her alight and reduce her to ash.
