Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Sixty-Two: Stranded

TW// Brief mention of vomit

—

"Blimey, it isn't half pouring!" the Doctor yells over the thunder and lashing rain.

We run from the Tardis to the shelter of a tree. I wince and bring a hand to my side. The burn is still healing, often disturbed by sudden movements. Hugging her jacket around herself, Martha peers sceptically up at the branches as lightning strikes the sky. She nods towards the large house that stands before us, its windows broken and its brick walls greyed and covered with ivy knotwork. "And you reckon that's haunted?"

I chuckle. "Seems about right."

Frowning, he consults his sonic screwdriver. "'Haunted' is more of a general term. The ordinary paranormal encounter's just two different time periods interacting due to the thinning of transtemporal barriers. That or gas creatures — now that was an interesting Christmas; good old Charlie."

She looks to me for an explanation but I only shrug. "But what about the disappearances? Seven people in the last three years? That can't just be transtemporal barriers."

"Of course not. That's why we're investigating. Come along, you two. One would think you've never been to a haunted house in your life!"

Both grumbling, we follow him along the gravel drive, already soaked through. Martha leans over to me and mutters, "Okay, tell me he did not just confirm that ghosts are a thing."

I pause. A sudden coldness washes over me. I bring a hand to the back of my neck, shivering.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing. Just got an odd feeling, like..."

They both watch me closely as if I'm about to pass out at any moment. "Like what?"

"Like we're being watched."

—

Kicking the mud off my shoes, I try the light switch by the front door. Nothing happens. We take out our torches. The Doctor grins at us over his shoulder. "Starting to feel like a real ghost hunt now."

"Better not be. Why not have something easy this time? Maybe a werewolf or something fun." At Martha's suggestion, we both turn to look at her in disapproval. She winces and shields her eyes from the light. "What?"

We continue down the long hallway. Dust and litter sprinkle the creaky floorboards. We come to a stop in the doorway to a large room. A chandelier sits in the middle of the floor. Its chain is rusted and broken, and a few of the teardrop crystal shards have been fractured. A doll with a cracked porcelain face lies abandoned at the foot of a moth-eaten armchair.

While the others head over to investigate the furniture, I look out of the shattered French windows. It's too dark to see anything in the garden. I raise my torch and take a step closer.

The beam of light catches a glimpse something. A shadow.

A second later, it's gone.

I shake my head. It's probably just a windswept branch or a bird.

"Hey, come take a look at this."

At Martha's unnerved shout, the Doctor and I join her. She points to the wall. The paper has been ripped away to show the unpleasantly green plaster beneath. As her torch passes over it, we find a message scrawled across it in big capital letters.

I read aloud, "'Beware the Weeping Angel. Oh, and duck. Really, duck. Sally Sparrow. Duck, now — the Doctor (1969).'"

"Who the hell is Sally Sparrow?"