17 original exam-style questions - 8 pages of questions with a full mark scheme - free printable PDF.
Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). Fictional narrative created for 11+ reading and creative writing practice. Any resemblance to real people or places is coincidental.
Nobody in Marsh Row had been down to the Pemberton cellar in eleven years, not since old Mr Pemberton had nailed the door shut and moved to his sister's house by the coast. So when the removal van rattled away and left Aisha standing alone in the echoing hallway of her new home, the cellar door was the first thing she noticed: a rectangle of darker wood, four black nail-heads still buried in the frame like full stops.
Her mother was upstairs arguing gently with a wardrobe that would not fit round the landing corner. Aisha crouched by the door and worked her fingers under the lowest nail. It came away easier than she expected, squeaking once, like a small, surprised animal. Then the second nail. Then the third.
The air that met her when the door finally swung open was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather outside. It smelled of dust and something sweeter underneath, like apples left too long in a bowl. Aisha found the torch on her phone and pointed it down a flight of stone steps that curved out of sight.
At the bottom, pushed against the far wall, stood a grandfather clock taller than her father. Its face was the colour of old teeth, and its hands had stopped at seventeen minutes past three. Aisha ran her torch beam along the case and found, carved into the wood beneath the pendulum door, a single word: WAIT.
She should have gone straight back upstairs. She knew that, the way you know not to touch a hot oven door even before your hand feels the heat. Instead she reached out and turned the small brass key that sat, unremarkably, in the lock beneath the clock face.
The tick, when it came, was enormous in the small stone room, a sound like a giant swallowing. Aisha stepped back so quickly she nearly lost her footing on the stairs. The hands did not move. But somewhere above her, faint through two floors and a hallway, she heard the front door open and close, though she was quite certain her mother was still upstairs, still cross with the wardrobe, still calling down questions that Aisha, standing frozen at the bottom of the cellar steps, found she could not answer.