With every descending rung, Nancy relived the horror. She could have stayed there, a fallen heap of pain and despair on the bedroom floor. It was not going to get the satisfaction of her defeat, not today. In the bath, she’d gripped the taps as the shower water poured down. But there was nothing to wash off, nothing physical or tangible. She couldn’t scrub away the blackness that violated her. It may have won this single battle. But she wouldn’t let it win… and if it wanted war, then it would get war.
There was a calmness in every step down the staircase. Nancy had crawled from the bathroom to her bed and sat transfixed by her breakfast tray, a simple sight of normalcy. How was she to reason any of this? It hadn’t been Andrew. She understood that. Yet, in a vivid moment of lucidity, her heart had relished the connection, with her body responding as it always had to Andrew’s touch. Except, there was no doubt of the vile and deadly motives.
‘Ah, Nancy. You are up.’ Estelle passed through the hall from the library as Nancy’s foot hit the smooth tiles.
There was no escaping the strange air that hovered in the Priory. The usual white-cold light was warm and golden. Even Nancy could have been tricked into thinking that this was an ordinary house. And, maybe, for the sake of her sanity, she would play along with the façade for now.
‘Will you join me for a cup of tea in the drawing-room?’ Estelle held a large white envelope and waved it a little.
Nancy followed with a quick nod. Not more tea—at some point, she’d have to admit her dislike for the stuff and buy some coffee.
Estelle sat to one side of the settee and adjusted her floral dress over her knees. It was a yellow one today, the colour of daisy middles. There was something else that didn’t seem usual—her face was a little smoother, still aged, but the ripple of her moth-wing cheek flashed a touch lighter, silkier. Estelle smiled.
The tall clock with its polished case over by the panelled wall was ticking. Had it always ticked? The sound of its rhythm filled the void of memories that Nancy still couldn’t place together. She glanced at the fireplace. Thick logs hissed and crackled in the grate, nothing unusual in that, but… it was different. The room was warm. Sun streamed in through the stone casement windows. She wandered over, gazed out beyond the gravel drive to the gardens where she had seen her twins playing. Her thoughts crept back to the image of Andrew. She wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Go away, she thought, then turned back to the room and Lady Hardacre, who stared back at her.
‘Are you quite well this morning, my dear? You appear a little flushed. Not coming down with something, I hope. I could call the doctor if needs be.’ There was genuine concern there; Nancy felt it. It bled like warm honey from Estelle’s eyes.
‘I’m fine; although, I must ask you something. It’s important.’ Small puzzle pieces were slotting together. ‘Do you mind?’
Nancy hovered beside her, waiting to sit. Estelle patted the seat cushion.
‘Last night, you were… What I mean to say is… I’m having trouble piecing together, remembering our conversation. I think you fell ill?’ She was reluctant to be blunt; the memory was still unclear.
‘As you can see, I am well. I had it that Lizzie got you up to bed after you drifted off to sleep in the chair. Too much sherry, perhaps,’ Estelle said with a smile.
‘Nothing else? Nothing you would like to tell me?’
‘Actually, now you ask… Yes, there is. I was wondering if you would run an errand for me today?’ She waved the white envelope again.
‘Post office?’
‘Oh no. To Mr Beamish, if you would. Something I needed to sign. I forgot to give it to him last evening.’
Nancy remembered then. She recalled it all. Mr Beamish, the odd little man in a brown pinstripe suit. Hesitant Gloria, the teacher and her strange child Josie with her stranger crayon drawing that had made Gloria dart from the Priory with the speed of a bullet.
‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’ Nancy reached over to retrieve the envelope. ‘I may have a little wander around the shops, too, as it is such a lovely day. I could do with a few things.’
Lizzie appeared with a tray. ‘I took the liberty of making you a pot of coffee, madam.’ There was that glow again and a smile. ‘I also took the liberty of preparing the boys a little picnic for their adventures—just some ham sandwiches and jam sponge roll I made this morning. If there is nothing else, my lady, I shall go find them.’ She curtsied.
‘I’m heading into the village in a short while. I can give it to them on my way out. Please don’t worry, Lizzie. It’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.’ Nancy nodded with a natural smile that managed to reach her eyes, but her guts churned. She had every intention of finding the boys on her way out of Hardacre.
When Lizzie disappeared back to her chores, Estelle reached for her teacup, with bright eyes again on Nancy.
‘Have you had any more thoughts on the boys’ schooling?’ Estelle asked. ‘Gloria is a wonderful teacher. She has agreed to tutor twice a week. In addition, she could regularly bring Josie to play with the boys—they seem to have got along famously.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. I may see Gloria whilst in the village to make the final arrangements with her. You know, see what I need to sort here, like set up a schoolroom, for instance.’ If they were playing a game, Nancy sure as hell wouldn’t fall short on the rules.
‘Oh, certainly no need for that, my dear,’ Estelle declared with a grin, a sight new to Nancy. ‘We have a schoolroom. I and so many before and after having been tutored here. Hardacre's have never attended’—a frown wove itself along her thin brows, which Nancy noticed were painted— ‘the village school, or any school, after a point.’
‘Of course.’ Nancy put her coffee mug to her lips, slightly biting the edge of the china.
Stay calm. Stay focussed.
†
Lizzie handed Nancy a basket as she fastened the last button on her jacket. Nancy slung her leather bag over her shoulder, retrieving the car keys from the front pocket.
‘Thank you, Lizzie. I appreciate it.’
Lizzie bobbed. ‘Always a pleasure, madam.’ She leant a bit closer. ‘Always here to help you and those dear boys. You only need to ask.’ Her eyes hovered on the drawing-room door. ‘I’m on your side.’ She let go of the basket handle and placed her hand atop Nancy’s.
‘Thank you.’ Nancy didn’t dare say more.
‘I mean it, madam. Those boys are dear things.’
‘They are.’ Nancy eyed her carefully. She appeared a little duller now; the soft glow had gone. It was the tone of anxiety that sat just below Lizzie’s skin that caught Nancy.
‘Be careful. Remember those gift horses, madam.’ Nancy nodded, but Lizzie’s hand was going nowhere. She held Nancy’s tight and squeezed.
Something dug into at her hip. Nancy pulled her hand away and thrust it into her front pocket. Her fingers gripped the tiny object with the spiky stalk—the acorn. Lizzie fell away, adjusting her apron around her waist and fussing over her collar. Not once did she look at the acorn.
Nancy laughed a little. ‘Ah, well, what do you know. I forgot about that.’ She rolled the acorn about her palm and rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface. Her eyes met Lizzie’s. ‘A little gift from Oli.’
Lizzie didn’t smile. Her face paper-white, her eyes darted to the top gallery landing and lingered there, stretching from end to end and down the staircase. Nancy’s eyes didn’t follow. She knew what lay up there now. Instead, she opened the door before Lizzie could look back and quickly closed it behind her.
They had arrived in the Hillman only a few days before, though right now, it seemed like a lifetime. Nancy had entered the Priory with a furious soul, anger in her heart, and her two boys in tow. Yet, as she sat in the driver’s seat with the engine purring, she felt defeated.
She put the car into first gear and pulled off. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she saw the drawing-room window. Estelle stood there, her yellow dress vivid against the room’s gloominess. Nancy braked hard, her foot flat to the floor. It wasn’t the room that lay in the darkness around Estelle but the darkness itself.
Estelle pressed a hand to the window. Unconsciously, Nancy raised hers to wave, but Estelle didn’t wave back, nor did she see. Estelle’s eyes glowed opaque white. Her mouth fell open, nothing more than a black gaping hole. The daisy-middle yellow of her tea dress slipped into sepia tones, and her hair gleamed white.
The familiar click of the door locks rang in Nancy’s ears. She pulled the driver’s door handle, but it was locked. Her clammy hands kept slipping off the window winder. No matter how much she clicked her seatbelt catch, it wouldn’t free; she was stuck. Condensation was forming. Nancy wiped her cuff over the rear-view mirror. The air in the car was thick, clammy, suffocating.
Estelle was still there, unmoved.
Please, no.
Shadowy threads licked at Estelle, caressed her arms, and wound around her wrist as her hand rested on the window. Frost formed, fusing her palm to the glass.
It was the moment Nancy feared. It had been inevitable. The shadowy limb embraced Estelle, folded around her thin body, her breast and neck.
‘God, no!’ The Hillman jogged on its wheels as Nancy pushed and tugged at the door. The engine died. Silence.
She shuddered at the reflected image of her mother-in-law. It only took a few seconds, a blink in time. Lady Hardacre was no longer there. A swarm of fluttering wings, of dusty grey moths, had replaced her.
Nancy couldn’t turn away, transfixed by a sight that seemed to play for her benefit. The shadowy limbs swept the air where Estelle had stood, now nothing but wings. The shadows gathered them, folded them in on themselves, consumed them over and over, tumbling until just one lonesome moth remained. It flittered and bashed against the leaded glass, each time more desperate to escape, to find the light. Nancy heard it. She felt its need, sensed its panic in her heart as it thudded against the window, again and again until its last moment. A last long coil of evil swiped at the moth and left it to fall—half withered, half flapping—till it lay dead on the stone windowsill.
The engine purred, the sound scorching Nancy’s ears. Without a thought, she thrust the gear stick back into first and pulled off down the drive, spraying grey gravel in her wake. Into second gear, then pushing into third until she was far enough away so as not to see the window while her eyes darted from the driveway to the Priory and back.
It was more intuition than judgment when her boot slammed the brake. The Hillman screeched and skidded sideways to a stop on the verge with a thud. Her pulse raced as she pushed the heel of her hands to her temples, her forehead resting against the steering wheel. She shut her eyes in fear of what she’d hit. Banging on the window stole her thoughts. Elliot.
Her fingers quivered as she gripped the handle to wind down the window. Her hands smothered her boy’s cheeks, the panic in his eyes echoing her own.
‘Oliver?’
He nodded. ‘Please, Mummy, make it stop.’
She pulled the handbrake and escaped the car door with a speed that had the heel of her boot caught the rim; and she fell to the ground. Elliot grabbed her arm, tugged her, pulled her free. Her boots thudded hard, every step a marathon and her heart in her mouth.
Not Oliver, please. Please, no.
She felt the oak tree mocking her as soon as she caught sight. It thrashed the warm air. Its longer branches flogged the hard ground. Leaves fluttered like confetti, yet every branch was lush with new ones growing as the last fell. Nothing was still apart from the enormous bough—the one that pointed at the Priory. The one that held her youngest.
Oliver stood high on the branch, much higher than she remembered it ever being. The tree was huge, grown since they’d arrived. It had arrested her wits when she had driven past. She should have reversed down the drive back to normality. Even if it were a life of poverty, they would have been safe.
She saw it now, the evil that seeped in long grey mists from each branch. Every tiny twig emitted it.
‘Can you see that, Elliot?’
He looked puzzled. Fresh tears welled, and his voice broke into another sob. ‘Make Oli stop, Mummy, please.’
‘It isn’t him; it’s the tree, the evil—all of it. It’s this place.’
Nancy grabbed Elliot by the shoulders. ‘Now, listen to me clearly. Listening?’ He nodded. ‘Run as fast as you can. Get in the car. Shut the door and do not open it for anyone. This is important—no one but us.’ Elliot nodded again. ‘Now go.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m getting your brother. We’re leaving.’
Nancy watched her eldest bolt across the grounds in his wellies, thrashing off the stray leaves with his thin arms. She held her breath as she turned back to the tree.
She barely saw Oliver amidst the flying debris. A cyclone of twigs, leaves, even broken branches whipped the air and thrashed her as she walked closer. Her hands over her head, covering her face with her arms, she gradually paced forwards.
‘Oliver?’ she yelled as loud as she could before it snatched the air from her lungs. ‘Oli—’ Nancy fell to her knees, pushed down by the weight of wreckage.
‘You are a determined creature. I admire that.’
With gritted teeth, she pushed her hands on the ground as each knee crept closer. Slowly, slowly. It wouldn’t win. She would be damned if she’d admit defeat.
A giant tree root rippled over the ground like a great snaking serpent. It was in fingertip reach. Just a little farther… If she could just…
‘Not so fast.’
The root undulated, sending shudders through her hands. Nancy pushed herself up and staggered to her feet. A spray of dirt and debris rose, a muddy dust cloud in her eyes as the root whipped the air and beat her backwards. Gasping and stunned, she lay on the ground. Her chest burned as she choked on the dirt.
‘Come on then! You think you can beat me? You will not have another of my family. You want a fight? It’s with me!’ Nancy sputtered as she coughed up the last of the dirt. She wiped her face, stood, and stamped her boot onto the end of the exposed root. ‘Now give me my son!’
‘Very well, Nancy Hardacre.’
The end of the root twisted. The sound shattered in her ears. Sharp and caked in mud, it ripped through the air, reached up to the vast bough, and pulled the earth with it, leaving a cavernous trench at Nancy’s feet. Over and over, the end of the root flung up to its boughs, battering the boy from his perch.
Nancy grabbed the end as it hit the ground and dug her nails into the muddy tuber. She gripped it as it coiled beneath her. But her arms wound tighter.
Oliver stood unearthly still. Only the toes of his wellies touched the bark. His arms stretched out to each side in a cross. He stood almost suspended, seemingly unscathed by the lashes—silent words forming on his lips. Again and again, he repeated them, though Nancy couldn’t make out what they were. She called up to him to answer, but as he spoke with his eyes shut, the turmoil of swirling twigs and acorns fell to the ground with a thud. Oliver’s mouth closed, and his eyes opened.
‘Oli?’
Oliver’s rigid arms withered by his sides, his thin legs crumbled beneath his weight as his wide eyes rolled in their sockets, white like milky marbles. Then, just as his eyes shut again, he fell. Nancy caught him, hitting the ground with her back, smashing the lifeless root as it snapped over the gaping furrow. Her son lay in her arms, his head on her chest. Winded, they lay there for a while, too scared to do more.
Nancy looked up to the tallest branches. The sky was blue beyond, the sun glistening on the leafy tops. If she believed hard enough, the terror of reality could evaporate into that bright blue yonder, taking all her cares with it. Could she allow it to take her? Would it take all the pain with it?
‘Mummy?’
It was a muffled word but enough to ignite her instincts. Dazed, they gripped each other as Nancy scrambled from the muddy hole.
‘Quick. We need to leave right now.’
Nancy squeezed Oliver in her arms and ran. Had the car been this far away? The ground seemed to go on forever as she determinedly staggered over the gardens. She had barely left the Priory behind, her green Hillman still parked on the sparse gravel and its front wheels wedged on the grass where she’d left it.
‘Elliot?’ she shouted as loud as she could.
His hesitant head popped up from the back. He peered between the front seats, his face ashen. Nancy bundled Oliver into the back next to his twin.
The keys jingled in the ignition. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t move. Her back pressed hard against the seat, her head on the rest, staring in the rear-view mirror. Her boys were there. They were safe, all she had left in the world.
Move, Nancy. Start the bloody car and move your arse.
‘Who are they?’ Elliot was on his knee, his forehead pressed against the back window. He pointed.
Nancy’s view was limited. ‘Is it your grandmother?’ The vision of that weak, lone moth behind her eyes, Nancy swallowed and attempted to move her head. ‘It’s okay; we’re leaving.’ The car roared to life.
‘It’s not Nan,’ Elliot said. ‘I’m not sure who they are. There are lots of them.’
The car sped down the drive.
‘Elliot, sit back down. Don’t look at them.’
‘Are we coming back? They frighten me, Mummy.’
‘Over my dead body.’
Nancy peered at them both. Elliot’s face was white and panicked as he gripped Oliver’s arm. His twin, on the other hand, was still, hadn’t moved since she’d bundled him inside. His eyes were open, but her heart sank at the vagueness in them. Where was he?
Nancy pulled up along the quiet stretch of county road heading back to the village. The crossroads, the entrance to Hardacre Priory, far enough behind that she couldn’t see it or the oak tree. There were no cars or walkers while they sat there. If anyone had enquired, what would she have said? But they wouldn’t have stopped. This was an unassuming village; she wasn’t known here, wasn’t a local.
Lost in her scattered thoughts, Nancy hadn’t noticed that the boys were no longer confused or worried; the panic still running through her seemed to have left them. Elliot was tucking into a sandwich, Oliver a green apple.
Nancy flung around in her seat. She reached behind and slapped the basket lid shut. ‘What are you doing? We can’t trust anything or anyone.’
Two puzzled faces looked at each other, then at her.
‘Mum, it’s just the picnic,’ Oliver said. ‘Did Lizzie make it for us? It has cake and everything,’ he beamed.
‘What?’
‘I’m hungry.’ Oliver took a bite.
‘After what just happened?’ she spat, then swallowed slowly. Keep it together.
‘Lizzie said she’d bring us lunch and sent us out to play.’
‘They are all…’ How could she explain it to them? ‘We’re leaving, and we’re never going back.’
Oliver closed his mouth. His lip quivered.
‘Okay.’ Her eyes focused on the road ahead, Nancy revved the Hillman back to life.