This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition

Dark Season Books

First published: October 2016

This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

“I have waited so long for your return.”

In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.

Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.

But Owen knows nothing about the bride that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the figure that watches his every move.

The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.

of Ashbyrn House

He's coming back. I always knew he would. I waited so patiently in this dark, empty house, but I always knew he'd come back to me. How could he not?

The house is so very still as I stand at the window. Even dust no longer drifts through the air. In all honesty, I do not believe that one single particle in this entire house has moved in all these years. The spiders sometimes crawl across the outsides of the window, but they have long since died out on the inside of the house itself. And I have certainly not caused any disturbance, not as I have made my way endlessly from empty room to empty room, pacing the corridors with pure and perfect patience.

Always waiting.

Always hoping.

Always knowing .

And now he returns. I hear sounds beyond the far wall, near the gate. Although the house itself is shrouded in gloom, sunlight catches the dew on the lawn. Ashbyrn House looks beautiful, as ever, and now all that remains is for its rightful owner to come and sit at the grand mahogany desk. Then he can get back to work. I never minded waiting for him, because I always knew that his heart would lead him back to me.

Finally I see him, far off on the other side of the garden. He approaches the gate cautiously, almost fearfully, but it's most definitely him. He's older now, but there's no mistaking his manner as he stops and looks through at the lawn. Why does he hesitate? Why is he not already unlocking the gate and entering the grounds of his property? Perhaps he is overawed. Perhaps he cannot believe that he is home. I suppose I must be patient. After all, patience is one of my greatest qualities. Along with loyalty, and compassion, and a fair temper.

“Welcome back,” I whisper, allowing myself a faint smile. “Welcome to -”

Suddenly he looks straight at me, and a moment later he takes a step back. I feel a heavy, pounding weight of fear in my chest as I realize that for some reason he seems to have changed his mind. I tell myself not to panic, that he will doubtless realize his mistake and return to me, but then he takes another step back. It is almost as if...

He's leaving...

“No,” I whisper, filled first with shock and then with anger. “No, you can't! I've waited, you have to come back to me!”

He turns to walk away, and all I can do is scream. He has to return, he just has to, and yet a moment later I see his vehicle driving past the gate, heading along the road. I scream and I scream and I scream, determined to make him realize his mistake, but now I feel him getting further and further away. Rushing through the window, I make my way across the lawn until I reach the gate, and I arrive just in time to see his vehicle disappearing around the far corner. I scream again, but I already know that he'll come back. He has to.

He has no choice.

Chapter One

Owen - Today

“Don't talk to me about ghosts. I'm not interested in ghosts. The whole idea is a load of superstitious nonsense.”

“Of course, but -”

“So please, stop trying to bring it up.”

“Okay, but I just -”

“Because if you mention ghosts one more time, this sale is off. Is that understood? One more time, that's all it'll take.”

Stopping at the edge of the rather large pond, I turn and look back toward the house. Ashbyrn House is certainly an imposing presence out here at the edge of town, but fortunately there's a thick line of trees offering a degree of privacy. So long as I put up a few 'Keep Out' signs, I imagine I shan't be bothered too much by the locals. Perhaps I should get a big dog, too. One that terrifies the postman.

Of course, I still haven't decided that I'm definitely buying the place yet.

“You're a rational man, Mr. Stone,” the realtor says, with his usual chirpy tone. “That's good, I admire your focus. However, I feel it would be remiss of me to not mention the history of Ashbyrn House.”

“History is history,” I mutter, squinting as I look at the roof. “I'm much more interested in the practicalities. Ashbyrn House is a listed property, I believe? Grade II?”

“That's right. So obviously there are certain rules regarding any renovation work you might be planning to carry out.” He lets out a faint, trilling laugh. At least, I think it's a laugh. “You can't just knock it all down and start again.”

“I'm not looking to do any work on the place. I'm just thinking about repairs.”

“The house has been maintained very well by the Ashbyrn family,” he continues. “And obviously with nobody having lived here for several decades, everyday wear and tear is -”

“Why is that, again?” I ask, turning to him. “Why the hell would a family leave a place like this unoccupied?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding him back.

“Let me guess,” I continue. “Superstition?”

“Something like that.”

I can't help sighing. “So you're saying that a five million pound mansion has been left to rot for a few decades, just because a bunch of jumped-up luvvies heard a few bumps in the night?”

“It...”

Again, he hesitates.

“It's not quite like that,” he continues finally. “The family was loathe to sell, since Ashbyrn House has been in their hands for several centuries. It's their ancestral home. Unfortunately, the current economic climate has compelled them to put the house on the market.” He swallows hard. “In all good conscience, Mr. Stone, I feel I must tell you about the house's history. I would hate for you to feel, later on, that you had been deceived before you decided to go ahead with your purchase.”

“And I feel compelled to tell you,” I reply, “that as far as I'm concerned, history is history. I no more believe in ghosts than I believe in flying saucers or unicorns. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back to London soon. Would you mind showing me the rest of the property before I leave? And let's stick to the facts. I don't need ghost stories.”

***

A few minutes later, as we reach the far side of the house, I'm surprised to see what looks like a ruined church rising up between the trees. The property description mentioned some kind of outbuilding, but I was expecting a few old bricks or stones at most. Instead, several semi-collapsed walls stand high against the midday sun, and the shell of the church is more substantial than I ever would have expected.

“And voila!” the realtor says, turning to me with a nervous smile. “The ruins of St. Helen's. The local parish church now stands in the village, just a couple of miles away, but it's believed that as far back as the eighteenth century there was a church right here in the grounds of Ashbyrn House. As you can see, though, it's rather fallen into disrepair. At some point in the nineteenth century, most of the structure was demolished so that the stones could be sold. Desperate times, you know? I'm afraid this is all that's left.”

“Is it safe?” I ask as I reach the shadow of the ruin.

“Safe?”

“Is it likely to topple over next time there's a storm?” I push against one of the ruined walls, but it feels solid enough.

“Oh, no. Not at all. The foundations have been checked extensively prior to the sale. It's as sturdy as the main house.”

“And is this hallowed ground?” I ask.

“I don't entirely know, to be honest,” he replies. “I suppose it must have been, once. I don't know if that's the sort of thing that runs out after a while. Maybe it'd need topping up, so to speak.”

“An old church in the garden,” I mutter, finding the situation rather bizarre. “I doubt many houses in the country boast something like this.”

“Are you a religious man, Mr. Stone?”

I can't help smiling. “No,” I tell him, still looking up at the ruined tower. “I am not.”

“You work in publishing, I believe?”

“Something like that. I write.”

“How fascinating! What do you write?”

“Words.”

I hear him making his way toward me, trampling over the carpet of autumn leaves that covers the ground. Stopping at my elbow, he joins me for a moment in looking up at the ruins. All around us, the substantial garden of Ashbyrn House has fallen mostly still, save for the occasional rustle of the forest and a few scampering rushes. There must be squirrels around.

“I feel I must tell you about the bells,” the realtor says finally.

“The bells?”

“The bells.”

“Is this part of another ghost story?”

“Well -”

“Because if it is, I don't want to hear it.”

He sighs. “In all good -”

“Oh, you and your conscience,” I mutter, and this time it's my turn to sigh. “I'm really not interested in superstition,” I add, stepping past him and heading around the side of the old church. There's no roof left, of course, but part of the foundations are still showing and there's a set of old steps at the far end. I imagine that once, long ago, this was quite a decent-sized building. Of course, I have no use for a ruined church, although for a moment I can't help thinking that Vanessa would have loved to get her hands on a place like this.

She'd have thrown the most wonderful garden parties.

“I must tell you about the bells,” the realtor says suddenly.

Turning to him, I see a hint of fear in his eyes.

“It's probably nothing,” he continues, “but one of the many stories about this place is...”

I wait for him to continue, but he almost seems afraid to speak. At first, I assumed he was just trying to use ghost stories to bump up the price a little and pique my interest, but now I realize the man actually seems to believe all this nonsense.

“Some nights,” he says cautiously, “you might briefly hear the sound of bells coming from this spot. Just for a few seconds, or maybe a minute or two. Other people have heard them over the years, not just people from the house but also people who happened to be passing along the main road or the lane at the side.”

“Bells?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

He looks up at the top of the ruined tower.

“Obviously there's no bell here now,” he admits. “There most likely was, back when the church was in use, but it's long gone. Nevertheless, several people – several rational people – have reported hearing them.”

I wait, in case there's more to his nonsensical story, but finally I can't resist a faint smirk.

“Is that the big story about this house?” I ask. “Ghostly bells?”

“There's more,” he continues. “The house itself is said -”

“I'll buy it,” I tell him.

He seems shocked, staring at me with his mouth hanging half-open.

“Not your half-assed ghost story,” I continue. “I mean Ashbyrn House. The house, and its grounds. I'll buy the lot, in cash, for the full asking price. It's secluded and it should allow me to get on with my work. Plus, if there's no chain, I can hopefully move in very quickly. But there's one condition, and the condition is that you will never again utter a single word about ghosts, ghouls, spirits or imaginary bells. If I hear any further mention of those things from your lips before the contract is signed, I'll walk away from the sale and find another house to buy. Is that clear?”

He seems hesitant for a moment, before finally nodding.

“I'm glad we understand one another,” I tell him. “Please have the contracts drawn up and forwarded to my solicitor, and hopefully we can get everything signed before the end of the month.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, making a note on his clipboard. He seems nervous, and he's clearly holding something back, but I honestly don't care about the man's superstitions. Ashbyrn House will serve my purposes just fine, and I want as little complication and fuss as possible. I can work on my papers here without interruption, and I can minimize contact with the rest of humanity. I just want to be left alone.

“And will it be just you living here?” the realtor asks as he makes some notes. “Or...”

I turn to him.

“Just me,” I say after a moment. “And believe me, that's just the way I like it.”

Chapter Two

Katinka - 1859

Sometimes, I think there cannot be a more beautiful place in all the world. Ashbyrn House is simply perfect in every way. Come rain or shine, the house stands noble and proud. I rather think that our humble home has become a beacon for the local area, and I'm certain the people from several neighboring towns are in awe of the place whenever they pass. The house is solid and reliable, and it possesses a kind of honor. In some way, Ashbyrn House reminds me so very much of Father.

Lifting my dress slightly, to ensure that the hem doesn't drag in the mud, I make my way through the forest at the foot of the garden. Dappled sunlight flickers across the grass as the tree-tops above me are ruffled by a cool breeze. A squirrel hurries up a tree ahead of me, and I can't help but smile as I watch him stop a little way up. He has something in his mouth, no doubt a nut, and it's pleasing to see that he's getting on with his busy work.

“Hello, Mr. Squirrel,” I say with a grin. “Don't mind me. Please, continue on your way.”

As if he understood me, he climbs higher and finally disappears amid the mess of branches. I see his silhouette briefly, as he scurries and then jumps to the next tree, and finally he's lost in the canopy.

“Life goes on,” I whisper. “Father might be gone, but life...”

For a moment, I feel a flicker of sadness in my chest. It is one year to the day since Father dropped dead in his study, and I had long anticipated that I would become a little mournful. The others seem to be able to forget so easily, yet Father's passing haunts me still. I miss him, but at least I am able to enjoy the house that he built, and the grounds to which he tended with such care.

“Are you watching over me, Father?” I say out loud, turning and looking all around at the forest. “Can you give me a sign? Anything will do. Just one sign...”

I wait.

Nothing.

Perhaps I am foolish to fancy that death is anything other than total, perfect oblivion. No trace of Father remains, save for what I feel in my heart.

Still, this is a fine day, and I quickly force myself to remember that in many ways I am the luckiest girl alive. After all, Ashbyrn House is to be mine as soon as I marry, and the fateful day is now set. It might be my husband who comes to control the property, but nobody shall ever be able to take Ashbyrn House from me. The law of the county requires me to have a husband if I am to remain at the house, and fortunately I have found a man who fits the bill.

This is where I shall live, and where I shall be married. It is my home. Forever.

Spotting a smidgen of yellow-gold on the ground, I stop and crouch down to pick another beautiful chanterelle. We are so lucky here, that these delicacies grow in such abundance in our soil. Some people go wild for truffles, but to my mind the chanterelle is a far more enticing find. Father used to bring me out here when I was a child, to hunt for these mushrooms, and even now I cannot help but smile as I drop a few fresh specimens into the palm of my hand.

Father would be so proud.

Getting to my feet, I make my way between the trees, while still looking out for more chanterelles. After just a moment, however, I hear a grunting sound nearby, and I stop just in time to see that there is a common man on the ground, picking mushrooms on our property. He looks thin and dirty, and his clothes are frightfully scrappy, and it takes a moment before suddenly he turns, startled, to look at me.

“Who are you?” I ask, my heart pounding as I take a step back.

“I...”

He seems frozen, but after a moment I see that he has a small cloth bag next to him. Evidently he must have scaled the wall of our property, and now he is stealing mushrooms from our land.

“Get out of here!” I stammer, trying not to panic even as thoughts of rape and murder fill my mind. “I shall scream if you don't! The house is full of men and -”

Hearing another scratching sound nearby, I turn and see a young boy coming toward us. He, like the man, is very thin and gaunt, and he looks as if he hasn't eaten a good meal in some time. The sight is quite distressing.

“Are these them, Pa?” he asks, eyeing me with caution as he heads over to the man and holds out a trembling hand.

The man watches me for a moment, before turning to look at the boy's collection of mushrooms.

“These and these,” he says, picking out two chanterelles, but then he holds up a different type of mushroom, “but not this. This would make your gut hurt for a day and a night, and then some.”

The boy hesitates, before dropping the chanterelles into his father's bag.

“I'm sorry,” the man continues, getting to his feet. He takes a cloth cap from the top of his head. “We're just passing through. I know this is private property but, well, we hoped to forage. We need food, see.”

“You can't just come onto our land and take whatever you desire,” I point out.

“No, you're right.” He pauses. “It was wrong to come here, and I'm truly sorry. We'll leave what we picked. I'm sure we'll be able to find something else in the forest, beyond your walls. It's just that we're so hungry, and we were passing your gate when I happened to spot a patch of chanterelle mushrooms, and they looked so beautiful in the sun so...”

His voice trails off.

“Pa?” the boy whispers. “What are we to do?”

“We're to leave this fine lady in peace, Joe,” the man replies, turning to lead the boy away. “It was wrong of us to trespass.”

They look so wretched and poor, worse than anything I've ever seen before in my life. I'd heard that such people existed, of course, but I always believed they were confined to the cities. I never expected to encounter them here, not in the grounds of my own home.

“You might as well take those!” I call after them finally.

They both turn back to me.

“The mushrooms that you already picked,” I continue, horrified by the thinness of the boy and feeling that he must surely starve if he doesn't eat soon. “I am not cold-hearted, nor am I immune to the difficulties suffered by the lower classes. Take the mushrooms, but on the condition that you never steal from our land again. Is that clear?”

“Are you sure?” the man asks. “We have no means to pay you.”

“Just take them,” I tell him, “and leave. And if I ever see you on my family's land again, I shall have the dogs set on you. Is that understood?”

We have no dogs, of course, but the man has no way of knowing that. He nods, mutters something about gratitude, and grabs the cloth bag. Then he and his painfully-thin son head to the wall and climb over, until they are gone.

Leaning against a tree, I try to calm my racing heart. I am exceedingly lucky that I did not end this day in a bloody heap on the ground, but I suppose my act of generosity won those two ruffians over. They are clearly homeless drifters, and I should have sent them on their way without the spoils of their thievery. It's just that the boy looked so lost and scared, and I couldn't bear to think of him starving. Besides, I would never eat mushrooms that their dirty hands had touched. Why, I might catch some awful disease.

Hearing the main gate starting to swing open, I turn and see that a carriage has arrived at the house. With a sense of relief, I realize that at long last my portrait has arrived.

***

“Finally!” I mutter, as I make my way toward the hallway. “I can't understand what took the old man so long. He's been working on the painting for the best part of a year. I was starting to worry it wouldn't be ready in time for the wedding!”

“You mustn't fret so much,” Pippa replies, huffing and puffing a little as she struggles to keep up with me. “My dear sister, you're liable to make yourself ill at this rate!”

Ignoring her, I start walking faster, hoping she won't be able to keep up.

“Besides,” she continues, sounding a little out of breath, “if you'd paid the artist more, I'm sure he would have prioritized his work for you.”

“Everything must be perfect!” I hiss, finally reaching the hallway, where the painting rests against the far wall. It is covered in brown paper, but a moment later the paper is pulled away by the delivery men, and I finally see the finished work. “There'll be time to relax after I'm -”

Stopping suddenly, I'm struck by the beauty of the image that stands before me. Not the painting itself, of course, which is rather common and poorly done, but the figure is quite outstanding. I must have posed two-dozen times for the artist during the past year, and he has very faithfully recreated my elegance, my grace and my poise, not to mention my extremely slim and attractive figure. Why, my waist alone is a thing of great beauty, and I'm sure all the ladies of London would turn green with envy.

“It's nice,” Pippa says, having stopped next to me. “Really nice.”

I cannot answer her. I am too enthralled by the sight of my own beauty.

“Really, really nice,” she continues. “That's one of the nicest paintings I've seen.”

“Nice?” I whisper finally, taking a step closer to the painting, unable to stop staring at the picture of my own form. “Is that all you have to say? Nice ?”

“It's lovely!”

Hearing a cough nearby, I turn and see that the delivery men are waiting for something.

“I think they want paying,” Pippa whispers. “For bringing it out here.”

“Nonsense,” I reply loudly, offended by such a suggestion. “Get out of here, both of you! If anyone is to pay you for your work, it should be Henry Canterwell, the painter! I certainly won't be giving you so much as a shilling!”

The two men seem startled.

“Get out of my house at once!” I shout. “Out!”

They turn and scuttle out through the front door, although they have the temerity to grumble to one another.

“Why must the lower classes always be so fixated upon money?” I mutter, before turning back to look once more at the painting. “They should be honored to have transported such a fine and powerful work of art. In fact, I've half a mind to call them back here and demand that they pay me for the privilege! Look at me! I am absolutely exquisite!”

“Yes, Katinka,” Pippa says demurely, although she sounds her usual soppish and uncertain self. “It's a lovely painting, really! Very nice and... Very striking!”

“It must hang in pride of place,” I whisper, stepping closer to the canvas. “It must dominate, so that it cannot be missed by visitors. Sometimes, dull minds must be forced to recognize the qualities of their betters.”

“I'm sure,” Pippa mutters. “Whatever you say. You'd better ask Mother first, though.”

“Nonsense. It's none of her concern.”

“But she -”

“She is only in charge for another week,” I add. “After that, the house belongs to Charles and I. Mother had better get used to that fact.”

“I suppose,” Pippa replies, although she doesn't seem to share my enthusiasm. “Still, perhaps you should still ask her before you hang the painting. Just as a courtesy.”

“I'm so beautiful,” I continue, tilting my head slightly to get a better view of the painting. “Sometimes even I forget. I shall make the most wonderful bride next week. And then Ashbyrn House will be saved. No longer will there ever be any danger of it leaving the family.”

Chapter Three

Owen - Today

“You're moving where ?” Charlie asks as I set my briefcase on the desk. “Cornwall? Why the bloody hell would anyone ever move to Cornwall? There's nothing there!”

“Exactly,” I reply, opening the case and taking my papers out. It's two weeks since I was down visiting Ashbyrn House, but finally everything is signed and the place is mine. I paid extra to have all the paperwork expedited, and now I just have to pick up the keys. “Well, there are still some people , but I've found a house with big-enough grounds and it's a little way out of the nearest town. I'm hoping to bump into other people as little as possible.”

“But Cornwall ! That's hundreds of miles away! You'll go crazy!”

“I'll go crazier if I stay here in London,” I mutter, glancing at the window and watching for a moment as traffic roars past the office. Even right now, from this vantage point on the first floor, I can see twenty, maybe thirty people in the street. If I play my cards right once I'm in Cornwall, I might only see twenty or thirty people each year. I can't wait to leave London far behind.

“How about we go to the pub and discuss this?” Charlie says, coming over to join me. “You might be jumping into things a little too soon.”

“I've made my mind up.”

“But isn't Cornwall where people go to die?”

“I'm not sure it's quite that bad.”

“What's the biggest town in Cornwall? Do they even have towns? Or is it all villages and hamlets and old tin mines? Do they have electricity?”

I glance at him. “You haven't left London very often, have you?” I point out.

“I certainly haven't ever been to Cornwall,” he replies, as if the mere idea is ludicrous. “I've never needed to. There's nothing there.” He pauses for a moment, watching as I sort through the paperwork I completed on the train. “You're really going through with it, aren't you?” he asks after a moment. “You've been saying for a while now that you want to get away from people, but I always thought you were bluffing. This house you're moving to... I'm going to take a wild guess that it's secluded.”

“Very much so.”

“But you don't drive, Owen.”

“There'll be nowhere I need to drive to .”

“Is there at least a pub nearby?”

“I believe so. In the local town.”

“And will you be going to it, by any chance?”

“If I feel the need for human company. Which is unlikely. To be perfectly honest, I imagine I won't speak to anyone apart from whoever delivers my groceries once a week. I'll be pottering about at Ashbyrn House all alone.”

“House? The place has a name like that ? How big is it?”

“Too big, but I can deal with that. I'll just stick to one part of the place. I didn't want to waste time searching for somewhere else.”

“So you spent all that money you got from the film rights to your last book?”

“Some of it.”

I continue to work with my papers, but Charlie is still watching my every move and after a moment I feel my temper starting to simmer.

“What?” I ask finally.

“Is this because of Vanessa?”

I turn to him.

“It is, isn't it?” he continues. “Owen...”

“This is what I want,” I tell him firmly, hoping to avoid yet another torturous Vanessa-focused conversation. “I'll still be in touch with the office via email, and I'll have a phone. I'm not even averse to the occasional visit, but I'm done with London, okay? I've been here long enough. I'm almost forty-five years old now, and I think I've earned the right to live my life the way I want it lived. I've tried being social and pretending I want to be around other people, but that way of doing things just doesn't work.”

“You were social when you were with Vanessa.”

“For her sake. I hated every moment of those bloody parties.”

“Liar. You were happy.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm just worried you're retreating from life,” he says with a sigh. “I've been worried about that ever since the whole Vanessa thing blew up.”

“Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.” I head to the door, before turning back to him. “And for your information,” I add, “I won't be alone at Ashbyrn House. I have it on good authority that there's a ghost rattling around the place. Not that I believe in such things, but I know others do. Now listen, I know I agreed to come out tonight for a few drinks, and I'm sure you're already planning to turn this into a leaving party for me, but I'm honestly not interested in getting drunk. A few beers and then I'm heading home, okay?”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he replies with a grin, as he comes over to grab his jacket from the hook. “Just remember that a leaving party isn't just for the person who's leaving. It's also for the poor arseholes who're getting left behind. And believe it or not, Owen... Some of us are actually gonna miss you! Even if you have been a grumpy bugger over the past six months. The place just won't be the same without you.”

I watch as he heads along the corridor, and for a moment I feel a hint of regret in my chest.

“I can't cling onto the past,” I mutter, before turning and pulling the office door shut. “London's over for me.”

***

Opening my eyes, I'm shocked to see the gray morning sky outside my flat. I blink, trying to remember how I got here, but then I start to sit up and I immediately feel a twist of nausea in the pit of my stomach, along with the flickering of an immense headache.

Whiskey.

Charlie got me drunk on whiskey.

Letting out a low, pained groan, I look around and see that I must have passed out on my sofa. The last thing I remember is going to a bar in Soho, and letting Charlie get a round of drinks. After that, I have a few little flashes of memory, but nothing very concrete. I think I threw up in a pub bathroom, and I think someone asked me if I was okay. I certainly don't remember how I got home, although a moment later I spot a take-away bag on the table, so I guess I stopped off somewhere to grab some food. Looking down at the front of my shirt, I see a brown stain, and I feel even more nauseous as I realize I can smell curry.

“Great,” I mutter, hauling myself up and almost toppling over in the process. I pause for a moment, just to steady myself, and then I stumble around the sofa and through to the kitchen.

I freeze as soon as I see that one of the cardboard boxes is on the table, with its contents strewn all over the counter-tops. Even before I wander over, I know what I'm going to find. I packed some of Vanessa's items into this box, intending to stow it away in a storage place when I move away to Cornwall, but evidently drunk-me decided to pull everything out again last night and take a look. Sure enough, a couple of framed photos are next to the cooker, and I feel a flash of sorrow as soon as I see Vanessa's smiling face.

“What the hell was I thinking?” I whisper, quickly grabbing the photos and placing them back in the box, face-down.

And then I see the two wedding bands on the floor.

“Oh God,” I say with a sigh, realizing that I really must have allowed myself to get mawkish last night. Heading around the table, I groan slightly as I reach down and pick the bands up, and then I stop for a moment to stare at them as they rest in the palm of my right hand.

I remember the day I proposed to Vanessa.

I remember her smile.

I've never seen anyone look so happy. She actually cried. I thought people never actually cried from happiness, not in real life.

Closing my hand to form a fist, I head back over to the box and drop the wedding bands inside. I've been through all of this too many times in the past, and I sure as hell don't need to go through it again. I was half-wondering before whether I should take this box with me to Cornwall, but now it's abundantly clear that I should leave it behind. The last thing I need, once I'm bumbling about in Ashbyrn House all alone, is to have another drunken night and start dragging the past back out. Frankly, I'm tempted to take this box, add a few bricks, and drop it into the Thames, but I know deep down that I should be a little more mature. I'll put the box in storage, along with all the other crap I'm not taking to Cornwall. Out of sight, out of mind.

Suddenly I hear a groan nearby. I turn, startled, before realizing that I recognize the groan.

Sighing, I head through to the hallway and then I stop at the bathroom door, where I find Charlie slumped on the floor. He's finally starting to stir, but frankly he looks to be in an even worse state than me, which is some consolation. Typical Charlie. No matter how drunk I get, I can always count on him to be much, much worse.

“Water,” he gasps. “God, I need water.”

“Fetch it yourself,” I mutter, turning and heading back into the kitchen. “I have to take some boxes to the storage locker. By the time I get back, at least try to look human. Then we can go to Wetherspoon's and have one last hungover breakfast before I leave this goddamn city far behind.”

***

Why am I keeping all this stuff? Seriously, what's wrong with me?

Reaching up, I slide the box full of Vanessa's items on top of several other boxes that I brought to the lock-up last week. I always thought I was a pretty light spender, someone who never accumulated 'stuff', but I've somehow managed to fill sixteen large boxes and there's still more to go. I guess living with Vanessa for so long meant that I began to pick up more items here and there, to the extent that I ended up owning three different bedside lamps.

Three bedside lamps!

Who the hell needs three bedside lamps?

Not me, that's for sure. Which is why they're all here in the lock-up now, and they're going to stay here for the foreseeable future. I'll be traveling light when I go down to Cornwall. In fact, I think I might try to make do with whatever I can carry on the train to Truro. I see this move as a chance to make a big break, and to de-clutter my life. Living with Vanessa was wonderful, but that woman most certainly had a knack for bringing things into my flat. I swear, not a week went past without some new ornament, rug or cushion sneaking its way through the front door.

I can't even begin to imagine what she'd have done if she'd gotten her hands on Ashbyrn House. It would have been the project of a lifetime.

“We have to make our house feel more like a home,” I remember her telling me once. “We have to think about how things fit together.”

Once I'm certain that the latest box is securely in place, I head around to the shelves at the far end of the lock-up. The hangover is still clouding my thoughts a little, and it takes a moment before I remember I was going to search for my old leather traveling bag. I think I must have packed it away by accident, although to be honest I don't much fancy going through everything all over again. Reaching up, I start using the tip of my fingers to edge one of the boxes out from the highest shelf, figuring that I'll just take a quick look and then – if I can't find the bag – I'll buy another. Standing on tip-toes, however, I struggle for a moment to move the box, and finally I decide to try a different approach.

I step back, and then I gently push the pile, hoping to shift the box using gravity alone. If I just -

Suddenly the pile starts toppling toward me. I barely have time to realize the danger before the boxes come crashing down. Covering my head, I drop to my knees as the entire tower collapses. Heavy box after heavy box thuds down onto my back, and finally I let out a faint grunt as I turn away and one final box lands square on my shoulders. Then I wait, tensed in case there are any more, before finally accepting that the onslaught is over. I think I might just have survived.

I can't believe I was stupid enough to push the pile like that. And now, when I try to get up, I find that several of the boxes are pinning me down.

“Great,” I mutter with a groan, trying again to rise from the floor, only to find that these boxes are a little heavier than I'd credited. One in particular is pushing down against my shoulder, but I don't want to call out for help like a goddamn idiot.

I twist around, trying to pull free, but suddenly another box comes tumbling down and lands square against my chest, pinning me to the wall.

“Damn it!” I mutter, stopping and taking a moment to get my breath back. I can get out of this mess, but I need to pull myself together. The metaphor of the situation isn't lost on me, either. I shift slightly under all the boxes, while taking a couple of deep breaths, and then I brace myself to rise.

Before I can start to push the boxes away, however, I spot movement in the corner of my eye. I turn, figuring that now I have to deal with the fuss of the lock-up's attendant finding me, but to my surprise I see that there's a woman standing in the doorway over on the far side of the room, and she's wearing a white wedding dress.

I blink, and she's gone.

I wait a moment, but I don't hear any footsteps. It's almost as if the woman was never here at all, but I know what I saw and I'm certainly not given to hallucinations. There was a woman in the doorway wearing a wedding dress, and her face was covered by a veil. I couldn't really make out her features at all, but I did see a small bouquet of flowers clutched in her hands. She was most certainly real.

“Hello?” I call out.

Silence.

I wait a few seconds longer, convinced that some reasonable explanation will leap out at me. When that fails to happen, however, I tell myself to just focus on the task of getting out from under the boxes. After taking yet another deep breath, I start easing the heaviest box aside, and finally I clamber out to freedom. The rest of the boxes tumble down behind me, but at least I've managed to escape with little more than an aching shoulder. Under the circumstances, perhaps I was lucky to avoid further injury.

“Thanks for the help,” I mutter, figuring that the woman could have at least given me a hand.

Getting to my feet, I brush myself down before starting to put the boxes back on the shelves. I can't help glancing over my shoulder a couple of times, just in case the woman in the wedding dress shows up again, but she seems to be long gone. God knows what she was doing here, but I guess all sorts of people use the lock-up to store all sorts of things, even bridal gowns. Maybe I'm not the only one who needs to get rid of some baggage.

Chapter Four

Katinka - 1859

“Katinka? Where are you? Have you been in the -”

I hear footsteps reaching the doorway, followed by a moment of silence.

“Oh, there you are,” Pippa continues. “Do you want to come and play croquet on the lawn? Mother and I were thinking it might be fun to do something silly for a few hours.”

I cannot even bring myself to respond to such a foolish suggestion. Instead, I continue to stare at the painting, which has been consuming my attention now for several hours. In fact, ever since it was delivered earlier in the day, I have been quite unable to tear myself away. I know one shouldn't allow oneself to become too consumed by such things, but I simply feel that this painting is quite, quite beautiful.

“Katinka?”

I hear her coming up behind me.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “Why, I'm not sure I've seen you move from this spot since...”

Her voice trails off.

“A year,” I whisper finally. “That's how long it took for this to be completed.”

“I know,” she says with a giggle. “Awfully long time, if you ask me. A photograph might have been speedier.”

“This isn't me now,” I continue, looking for the hundredth – maybe thousandth – time at the contours of my dress as they're depicted by the painting. “Not anymore. This is me as I appeared one year ago.”

I sit in silence for a moment.

“Is that a problem?” Pippa asks eventually, sounding a little gormless and confused.

“I never realized until now,” I reply, “how much one can change in a year. If somebody were to look at this painting, and then to look at me as I am today, they would surely see a difference. Sister, don't you notice that I have aged since this portrait was painted?”

“I expect we all have,” she mutters. “You were twenty-six when you began to pose for the artist. Now you're twenty-seven.”

“Precisely. And in that year's difference, I have have hardly improved. Time begins to drag one's beauty down. Do you not think, Pippa, that I now perhaps have a shade more darkness beneath my eyes? And that I have gained a little weight? And that my complexion has lost some of its color since this portrait was painted?”

“Um...”

“Be honest, now. Don't spare my blushes.”

“I'm not sure about all that,” she replies, before giggling. “Katinka, I rather fear you're overthinking it all. Why don't you come and play some games for a while? Mother's waiting. It's not good for you to obsess over this painting, and you honestly look fine. You look very nice!”

“Fine?” I spit, turning to her. “Nice? My wedding day approaches next week, and you think I merely look fine ? And nice ?”

“I didn't mean it in a bad way,” she continues, evidently still amused. “I just think that if one spends too much time thinking about such things, one is bound to notice natural blemishes here and there. A year is a year, dear sister, and it brings changes to us all. I'm sure Charles will still be very happy to take you as his wife.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I mutter darkly. “Perhaps you're happy to let yourself wither away over time, but I must look better than my portrait, or people will gossip!”

“Oh, hardly!”

“They will!”

“ Who will gossip?” she asks. “I doubt anyone in town really gives two hoots about us. We're not exactly lords of the manor, Katinka. We're not some big, noble family. We're just -”

“Don't be stupid!” I hiss, interrupting her while still keeping my eyes fixed on the painting. “We're the most important family for miles around!”

“Are we?”

“Of course we are!”

Laughing, she grabs my arm, as if she means to lead me out of the room.

“Dear Katinka,” she continues, “I am ordering you to come and play games on the lawn. As your sister, I simply cannot leave you fretting alone like this, not when the sun is shining and the day is so lovely outside.”

“Leave me alone!” I hiss, pulling my arm away from her.

She grabs me again.

“Katinka -”

“Leave me alone!” This time, unable to hold my temper, I get to my feet and shove her in the chest, sending her stumbling back until she falls and crumples to the floor. Still angry, I step closer and tower over her, but finally the shock in her eyes is enough to calm me down.

“I was only trying to help,” she stammers, staying down on the floor for a moment as if she's too scared to get back up. “You didn't have to be so mean. I thought you'd stopped all that! I thought you were nicer now!”

“Get out of here,” I snarl, “and leave me alone. You don't understand what it's like to be a bride! You don't know how it feels to know that everyone is watching, waiting for your perfect beauty to slip! And as for your talk of us being just an ordinary family... Why, Father would turn over in his grave if he heard such wretchedness! Ashbyrn House is the greatest house in the area, and everybody knows that to be true!”

She dusts herself down as she gets to her feet. “You can be so horrible sometimes,” she grumbles petulantly, sounding like a child. “Do you realize that? You can be utterly monstrous!”

“Do you really think so?” I ask. “Why, just a few hours ago, I happened to chance upon a common man and his son stealing mushrooms from our garden? Do you know what I did?”

“What... What did you do to them?”

“I let them go,” I continue. “I even let them take their mushrooms. So you see, I can be a good person, and a kind and generous person. Just make sure you don't push me too far, Pippa, because I still have my breaking point!”

“Katinka...”

“Do you know what day it is?” I add.

Her bottom lip is trembling.

“Well?” I continue, stepping closer, until I am almost nose-to-nose with her. She is shorter than me, of course, and her large brown eyes are filled with fear. “What day is it, Pippa?”

“It's... I think, I mean... It's Tuesday. Isn't it?”

I wait for her to realize her mistake.

“I'm sure it is,” she adds. “Why, yes, Today is Tuesday. It must be!”

“Today is one year since Father's death,” I say firmly. “Or had you forgotten?”

“It is?” She furrows her brow. “Are you sure?”

“And you and Mother can think of nothing more than playing childish games on the lawn,” I sneer.

“But it's such a sunny day, Katinka...”

“Don't you think Father would have liked to have played croquet on the lawn?”

“Well, maybe, if he wasn't working in the study, but...”

She hesitates.

“He's dead, Katinka,” she adds finally. “So really, the question is...”

“You don't care, do you?” I ask. “You were never truly close to Father. I was always his favorite. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the anniversary of his death has slipped from your mind. That is just the kind of girl you are, is it not?”

She stares at me for a moment, with tears in her eyes, and then she turns and storms out of the room.

“You're rotten!” she calls back to me. “Did you hear that, Katinka? You can be really rotten sometimes!”

“Nobody understands,” I continue, turning back to look at the painting, which now appears to be taunting and mocking me with its depiction of how I looked one year ago. “I am surrounded by fools and ingrates, by people who cannot comprehend the burden of great beauty.”

I pause for a moment, before stepping closer to the canvas and reaching out, running a fingertip against the drawn line of my waist. The first time I posed for the painting, Father was still alive. When my wedding day arrives, I want to look exactly the same. For him.

“But there is something I can do about it,” I whisper finally, as a plan comes to mind. Slowly, a smile crosses my lips. “Of course there is. I shall be the most beautiful bride this world has ever seen. No matter what it takes. After all, pain is always temporary.”

Chapter Five

Owen - Today

“Now you'll have to watch it down there,” Charlie says as he follows me toward the platform at Paddington. “Those Cornish types can be a bit weird, from what I've heard. All joking aside, watch your back!”

“It's not exactly a land of savages,” I mutter, feeling as if he's getting a little carried away. “I think I can handle myself.”

“That's what the Sumners thought.”

I turn to him.

“Haven't you seen Straw Dogs ?” he continues. “You're not safe anywhere in this country, not once you get outside London. Cornwall especially. The place is miles and miles from civilization. Once you cross the Tamar, you're in the wilds. Have you considered purchasing a shotgun?”

Reaching the ticket barriers, I'm immensely relieved that Charlie won't be able to follow me any further. Frankly, his constant complaints about Cornwall are starting to get on my nerves. I know he's exaggerating for effect, and that he thinks he's funny, but I just want to get the hell out of London and never look back. Plus, I'm still a little hungover, and the din of the city is already agitating my headache.

“Are you sure about this, dude?” he asks finally.

“Very.”

“You'll be back. You'll go crazy down there.”

“I promise you I won't.”

“The whole Vanessa thing -”

“Is not the reason I'm leaving,” I add, interrupting him. “Please, don't mistake me for some broken-hearted moper. I'm going to be just fine on my own. I was on my own before Vanessa, and to be honest I kind of miss that state of solitude and calm. I can work on my book, and I can plan future projects, and I can respond to what'll undoubtedly be a stream of emails from you and Bobby, asking me this and that about the company. In fact, I'll probably be more -”

Before I can finish, I spot a figure in the distance, over by the W.H. Smith store on the far side of the concourse. I stare at her for a moment, shocked to realize that it's the same woman I saw at the lock-up this morning. Or at least, she's wearing the same wedding gown, complete with a veil covering her face.

“Owen?” Charlie says after a moment, turning and looking the same way. “What's up?”

A man and a woman pass in front of the bride, and now she's gone in the blink of an eye.

I wait, but she seems to have completely disappeared. It's hard to believe that nobody would have stopped to look at a woman in a bridal gown, yet it's almost as if I'm the only person who saw her.

“Owen?” Charlie continues. “Seriously, dude? What is it?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, figuring that there's no need to get into the details. I turn to him. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a first class seat waiting for me, and your attempts to make me change my mind are becoming tiring. I'll see you around, Charlie. And remember, this isn't goodbye. I'm sure I'll be forced to show my face around here occasionally.”

Once I've finally persuaded him that I'm really leaving, I head through the ticket barrier and along the platform. Once I've found my carriage, I haul my suitcase on-board, and I finally feel as if my journey is really starting. I'm traveling lighter than light, really making a show of my desire for a new start, and I genuinely just want the train to get started. In fact, as I settle into my seat, I find that I have no doubts whatsoever. I was worried that perhaps I'd feel a smidgen of regret, but if anything I'm just excited to get going. Ashbyrn House is waiting for me, and I fully intend to enjoy my new life of isolation.

As the train pulls out of the station, I glance at the platform. For a split second, I actually catch myself half expecting to see that spooky bride again, but there's no sign of her. Relieved, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, listening to the rhythm of the train as it picks up speed. Soon I'll be hundreds of miles away in my new home, and London – with its millions and millions of inhabitants – can go screw itself.

The empty rooms and corridors of Ashbyrn House await.

Chapter Six

Katinka - 1859

I shall not scream. I shall not cry out. I am better than that, I am stronger. I shall simply do what is necessary, and any pain or discomfort must remain hidden.

After all, I am a lady.

Ladies do not cry out.

The blade feels light in my right hand, almost flimsy. Almost too weak to have any real power. Yet as I begin to slide the edge against my side, I feel a sliver of pain. A moment later, a dribble of warm blood runs down my flesh. I have begun, and there is no turning back. I slide the blade back through my flesh, to deepen the cut, and then I slowly start to drag the metal down the side of my waist, shaving away a thin slice of skin. Not a lot, certainly not enough to cause any lasting damage. Just enough to make my shape more closely resemble the figure in the painting.

Finally, looking down, I let out a faint gasp as I see that I have indeed cut away a curled patch of skin. In the process, I have exposed a bloody, pinkish section of my meat, and the pain is intense.

Fortunately, I am strong.

I carefully pull the section of flesh away, using the blade to cut the last connecting piece, and then I start cutting again. This time I force myself to watch, even if this somehow makes the pain seem worse. As I continue to run the blade down my side, I see that I am about to cut away a small mole that has been sitting just above my hip since childhood.

Good.

Another imperfection that must be lost.

I watch as the blade runs under the mole, loosening the entire patch of skin. The pain is much stronger than before, and after a moment I start letting out a series of pained whimpers as tears run down my cheeks.

“Be strong,” I whimper, “be strong, be strong...”

Once I'm done with this latest slice, I place the piece of flesh on the table and stare at the mole for a moment. I feel a little sad to lose something I have carried with me since birth, and for a few seconds I think back to the way Father used to run his fingertips across the mole. I'm half-minded to try sticking the damn thing back in place, although I quickly realize that the cause is lost. I suppose one must simply make sacrifices in the pursuit of perfection, and my childhood mole is one of those sacrifices.

“Katinka?”

Suddenly Pippa knocks on the door, and a moment later she gives the handle a try. It is immensely fortunate that I remembered to turn the key, so at least she cannot barge in and interrupt me. She tries the handle a couple more times though, rattling the door as if she thinks she can somehow budge it open.

“Katinka?” She knocks again. “Are you in there? The door won't open!”

“I shall be out soon!” I tell her, forcing a smile in the hope that its trace will carry in my voice. “Just wait for me downstairs.”

“The door's stuck!”

“It's locked!” I hiss, annoyed that she can't figure that out for herself.

“Is it?” She tries it yet again. “Are you locked inside? Don't you have a key?”

“Of course I have a key,” I mutter. “I'm the one who locked it.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Why did you do that?”

“I would simply like a little privacy for a moment or two.”

“Why?”

“I just would !”

“Oh. Okay. But why?”

“Pippa -”

“You can be frightfully lonesome sometimes, Katinka. Anyway, Mother and I were thinking about tea!”

“I shall join you presently!”

“What are you up to?” she continues, trying the door yet again. “I wanted to apologize, Katinka. I think I must have been dreadfully insensitive earlier, when we were looking at the painting. I should try to remember in future that you're older than me, and wiser too, especially when it comes to matters of society. From now on, I shall always demur to your thoughts.”

“Good,” I stammer, fighting against the pain as more and more blood runs down my bare side. “That is how it should be.”

“And I'm sorry I didn't think more about today being the anniversary of Father's death. I asked Mother, and she hadn't realized either.”

“That's no surprise.”

“So are you coming down soon?” she continues brightly, as if she thinks all is right with the world again. “We'd all like to see you and talk about your wedding! Mother's having one of her panics again. She thinks we'll never be ready!”

“I'll be down presently. Just leave me alone for a moment longer.”

I wait, hearing nothing but silence. Finally there's the sound of footsteps heading away from the door, and I realize that my sister is going back down to the others.

Feeling faint, I lean against the side of the table and try to get my senses under control. I knew I would lose blood in this endeavor, but not quite so much, and now I am wondering whether it would be wise to complete the undertaking in two separate tries, rather than doing everything at once. Not that I am weak, of course. I simply fear that I might lose consciousness. Even the strongest among us must recognize our weaknesses.

Finally, I set the blade aside, confident that I have done enough for now. I shall finish the job tomorrow. There will be scarring, of course, but nothing that will ever be seen by another living soul. The only person who might ever expect to observe my bare waist is my future husband, but it is not as if he has some divine right. I shall simply insist on remaining clothed in front of Charles at all times. Even in our marital bed, there is no need to bare myself completely. And if he doesn't like that, then...

Well, he can lump it.

The most important thing is that I am perfect, absolutely perfect, for my wedding day. The dress is beautiful. I must be beautiful too. My husband deserves nothing less. And Father, if he is looking over me, will be so very proud.

Chapter Seven

Owen - Today

“No, I just need a taxi!” I mutter darkly, following the barman as he heads over to the beer pumps. “There has to be one somewhere! I can't walk three miles in this atrocious weather!”

As if to prove my point, there's a loud clap of thunder outside, and I turn to see flashes of rain crashing against the window. It's almost midnight, and after a train journey that was plagued by rainstorms, I've finally come up against yet another inconvenience now that I'm just a few miles from my new home. I almost drowned as I hurried from the bus stop to the pub, and now apparently there's not a taxi to be found.

“You won't get a taxi coming out here, not this late,” the barman tells me as he leisurely pours another pint. “If you want my advice, you're best off staying with us tonight and then heading out to Ashbyrn House in the morning, once the weather's died down a bit.”

“I don't want to take a room here,” I reply, trying very hard to control my temper. “I want to go to Ashbyrn House. I have the keys and I'm more than ready to move in!”

“The roads'll be nothing but puddles right now,” he continues. “It might even be dangerous, heading out there right now. You don't wanna chance it, not when Mother Nature's having a fit and a turn.” He glances over at a man who's slumped at the bar. “Isn't that right, Roger?”

The man sits up suddenly and looks at us for a moment, clearly startled, before slowly nodding his head.

“That's right,” this Roger fellow says, slowly leaning back down to rest his head on the bar again. “You can't go out in this weather. It's just not practical or -”

Suddenly he burps, which seems to lull him back to sleep.

“Maybe someone is willing to drive me,” I continue, following the barman back along the bar as he takes the pint to another customer. “Do you know anyone around here who does Uber or anything like that? I'll pay extra, I just really need to get to Ashbyrn House.”

“And I sympathize, but I reckon you're on a hiding to nothing. Like I told you, you're better off taking a room here, having a pint and something to eat, and chilling out 'til morning. There's nothing to be done about the weather. Besides, are you really in a big hurry to get there? There's nobody but the bride waiting for you.”

I open my mouth to tell him I won't wait, but suddenly I'm struck by those last words.

“What did you say?” I ask cautiously.

Nearby, another regular chuckles at something.

“I'm sure she'll give you a warm welcome,” the barman continues, eyeing me cautiously for a moment before breaking into a smile. “I'm sure I'm joking. I'm sure there's no reason to worry about the likes of her.”

Again, I'm on the verge of asking him to explain what he meant when he talked about a bride, but I quickly tell myself not to bother. These people are clearly imbeciles, and the last thing I want is to become their sport for the night I'm sure they'd delight in spewing out nonsensical ghost stories, coming up with ever more elaborate fictions concerning my new home. And any mention of a bride is just a coincidence.

“I think I'll walk,” I mutter under my breath, pulling out my phone and bringing up a map of the area. Sure enough, the trek out to Ashbyrn House is a few miles, but at least it's in a relatively straight line. Besides, the last thing I want on my first night is to be price-gouged by some local pub that offers sub-standard rooms at premium prices. A little rain never hurt anyone, and I insist on sleeping in my new home tonight. Besides, what better way to prove that I'm ready for the rural life, than to walk through this miserable weather?

Hearing a faint whimper nearby, I turn and see a dog moping on the bare floor, staring up at me with sad eyes. I'm no expert, but I think he might be a Jack Russell.

“That's Bob,” the barman says, already pouring another pint. “My wife bought him to guard the pub, but she's gone now and the bloody dog's no use. You don't want him, do you? If I can't find someone to take him off my hands, I'll have to send him to the rescue place. I should warn you, though. He eats a lot and he doesn't bark at any bugger. Useless guard dog.”

“Maybe he just doesn't like you ,” I point out.

He furrows his brow. “How's that?”

“Having never owned a dog myself,” I continue, “I'm no expert, but I was under the impression that dogs guard people, not buildings. Perhaps this dog has simply taken a disliking to you.”

I wait for him to reply, but he seems mystified by the suggestion.

“Just a thought,” I add with a faint smile.

“I reckon it's his limp,” the man replies, as he finishes pouring the pint. Outside, there's another rumble of thunder. “The little arse got hit by a car once, and now he limps everywhere he goes. Probably makes him feel stupid. Still, he's off to the shelter on Monday, and they only give 'em two weeks to find a new owner before... Well, you know. Nobody wants a limping dog that doesn't bark, so they'll put him to sleep. Probably the best thing for the little mutt.”

As if to prove his point, the dog gets up and limps across the room, before sighing as it settles back down on the wooden floor. I watch him for a moment longer, before turning to the barman just as he sets a pint of beer in front of me.

“On the house,” he adds with a grin. “Now, will you be wanting a normal room, or the suite?”

The dog whimpers briefly, before letting out a long sigh.

“Thank you for the kind offer,” I mutter, turning and starting to drag my suitcase to the door, “but I have a long walk ahead of me.”

“You can't be serious!”

“Deadly.”

“Someone'll be able to drive you out there in the morning!”

“That's lovely,” I reply, opening the door and immediately feeling a blast of cold, rain-lashed wind blowing in from the parking lot, “but it's not much use to me. I want to get to Ashbyrn House tonight.”

Outside, the storm is causing a howling gale to crash through the trees, while the pub's sign is swaying and creaking high above. I can't help staring out at the dark, empty parking lot and wondering whether I'm making a mistake by setting off alone. Perhaps one night here at the pub would be a wise decision, but I've already announced my intention and there's no way I want to look weak by changing my mind. I'm sure I'll be fine if I just keep my coat wrapped tight and walk at a brisk pace, although for a moment I can't help staring out at the night's storm and feeling as if the wilds of Cornwall are a little more extreme than I'd expected. Welcome to the end of the world, indeed.

And then I remind myself that this is what I came for. Isolation. Solitude. Peace and quiet.

“Well, good luck to you,” the barman mutters. “You wouldn't catch me trekking about out there, not this late and definitely not in this weather. Especially not when the only thing on the other end of the walk is Ashbyrn bloody House. Gives me the willies, that place does. Give my regards to the bride, if you happen to see her.”

Hauling the suitcase outside, I stop again, readying myself for the long walk ahead. It's almost midnight already, and I expect it'll take me a couple of hours to reach the house. All I see ahead is darkness, but I know Ashbyrn House is out there somewhere waiting for me, nestled in the wild countryside far from the village. I came here for the isolation, so I can't exactly complain about the fact that the house is isolated.

And then, just as I'm about to set off, I hear a faint whimpering sound behind me. I turn and see the dog watching me with mournful eyes, and then I turn to the barman.

“How much,” I say finally, “did you want for him?”

***

“Wait!” I hiss, struggling to get the key turned while still holding onto the lead. “I know you're wet, but hold on a second! This damn thing is -”

Finally the key does its job and I hear a faint clicking sound, and I'm able – after a couple of shoves – to force the front door open. The dog immediately scurries into the darkness, leaving me to haul my suitcase up the final step and then make my way into the cold, pitch-black main hallway of Ashbyrn House. I'm soaking wet, having been drenched by the worsening storm on the long walk out here, but at least the interior of the house is dry, even if it actually seems colder than the air outside.

I can already hear the dog shaking rainwater off its fur as I push the door shut.

“There has to be a light-switch here somewhere,” I mutter, fumbling to feel for a switch on the wall. I should have made a note of such things when I was here with the realtor, but I never expected my return to occur so late at night. The place is so cold, I'm actually shivering slightly.

Unable to find a switch, I take my phone from my pocket and activate the flashlight app. I quickly find a switch on the wall, but unfortunately nothing happens when I give it a flick.

“Seriously?” I say with a sigh, trying a couple more times before starting to search for another. “Those idiots said the power would be connected today. I called them twice!”

Still soaking wet and dripping water all over the tiled floor, I make my way over to a switch next to the basement door. Again, no matter how many times I try to bring light to the proceedings, nothing seems to work. There are some hot-water pipes next to the switch, but of course they're cold to the touch and the paint is already flaking and peeling away. A moment later, small-bodied spider with thin, spindly legs crawls past my hand. I knew full well when I purchased Ashbyrn House that the place was in need of some work, but perhaps I didn't appreciate the extent of the house's dilapidation.

Hearing the dog's paw-patter on the floor, I turn and shine my phone across the hallway, just in time to see Bob sniffing the tiles as he limps toward the door that leads into the dining room. His tail is wagging and he seems happy enough, although I'm starting to wonder whether my moment of weakness at the pub was wise. I've never owned a dog in my life, and I'm not exactly sure what I'll do with him. Still, the die is cast and the decision is made, and I'm sure he'll learn to leave me alone while I work.

I guess I'll just have to throw a ball for him, a couple of times a day.

“Don't go too far,” I mutter, although Bob is already following a scent into the next room. I'm sure he'll be fine.

For now, the main task must be to get some heat, so I leave my suitcase and use the phone to light my way as I head over to one of the nearby doors. Sure enough, I look through and see the large drawing room, with a fireplace at the far end. It's one thing to possess a fireplace, of course, but as I make my way over I start to realize that I have no means of actually starting a fire. I crouch down and take a closer look, just in case I might be lucky enough to find some old wood, but the fireplace is empty save for some ash, and it's quite clear that I won't be able to get anything up and running tonight.

“Great,” I whisper under my breath, as I realize that I've arrived unprepared. Perhaps, despite my haste to get away from London, I should have waited a few more days until things were better sorted, but I just wanted to start my new life as soon as possible.

And there's a woodshed.

Suddenly I remember that there's a woodshed around the side of the house, and I definitely saw piles of wood when I was here with the realtor. I have a box of matches in my coat pocket, thanks to a moment of actual preparedness, so with a sigh of relief I realize that I actually do have the means of starting a fire after all.

Getting to my feet, I head back through to the hallway and then over to the front door, which I pull open only to see that the rain has intensified in the few minutes since my arrival. In fact, even though I can barely see the lawn, I can hear what sounds like a tropical storm, along with the gush of the house's guttering bringing rivers of water down to ground level. Reaching my hand out, I immediately feel the heavy rain, and I can't help thinking that perhaps I should wait until the worst of the bad weather has passed.

Then again, the storm has just seemed to get stronger and stronger since I arrived in the area, so I check that my coat is closed and then I glance over my shoulder, looking back into the darkness of the house.

“Stay here!” I call out, although I doubt the dog is even listening.

After taking a deep breath, I hurry out into the rain, which somehow is even worse than I'd anticipated. It feels as if there's more water than air all around me, and my waterproof coat is no match for such a heavy downpour. At least my phone is resistant to the elements, so I'm able to light my way as I run along the gravel path and hurry around the side of the house, searching for the woodshed I'm certain I remember seeing. Finding no sign of it, however, I realize that perhaps it was on the other side, so I make my way back the way I came while cursing and muttering under my breath.

As I pass the open front door, I see Bob sitting in the dry, watching me and wagging his tail. He looks happy enough.

“It's alright for some,” I grumble, hurrying along the side of the house and then around the far corner.

Finally I locate the woodshed, although there's little protection for me as I stop to pull some logs out. The top layer is already damp, but fortunately I find some drier specimens a little further down. Feeling something tickling my hand, I tilt the phone and spot a couple of spindly, long-legged spiders scuttling across my fingers, so I quickly brush them away before gathering more logs into my arms. I'm not afraid of spiders, but I don't exactly want to invite any into my new home. After balancing some more logs on top of the ones I've already collected, I turn and start carrying them back toward the house.

Stopping suddenly, I stare at one of the dark windows, and for a few brief heartbeats I swear I see the moonlit edge of a face staring out at me from the depths of the house. The figure is gone before I even have time to blink, and now the window is dark again, but I must admit to a moment's pause that sends a faint shiver through my chest.

I wait, just in case I see the face again.

Finally, realizing that I'm standing like a fool in the pouring rain, and that the so-called face was just a trick of the light, I turn and run around to the front of the house, heading to the main door where I find Bob still sitting patiently and waiting for me. Rain is falling harder than ever, causing a loud hiss to fill the air all around me.

“Out of the way!” I shout, stepping over the dog as I carry the wood inside and head through to the drawing room.

I drop to my knees and let the logs tumble from my arms. As they land noisily on the wooden floor, I take the matchbox from my pocket and pull out a match. I'm really shivering now.

Bob comes sniffing over to me, stopping to smell the logs.

“I know, I know,” I tell him, as I root through my pockets for some old receipts and anything else I can use to get the fire started. “It's not exactly ideal. I'll sort the place out properly tomorrow, I promise. Everything'll seem much better in daylight.”

It takes me a few minutes to get some scraps of paper arranged in the fireplace, and then I add some thin pieces of dry wood, and finally I place the more substantial logs on top. I'm hardly an expert when it comes to this sort of thing, so I have to try several times before I manage to get a proper flame going, by which point the matchbox is almost empty. Leaning into the fireplace, I blow gently on the fire, desperately hoping that it'll grow to become useful. Finally, as if by some miracle, the old logs start to burn and I feel the first faint flickering heat on my face and hands.

“And that's how you start a fire,” I say, turning to Bob. “Impressed? Maybe your new master isn't such an idiot after all.”

He wags his tail at me, and I reach out to pat him on the back. Maybe I was right to take him on after all.

Grabbing some more logs, I place them on the fire. I spot a couple more spiders scurrying to safety, so I guess I brought some of them in with me, but I figure they won't be too much of a problem. Not in a house this big. There's room for all of us, without us even having to cross paths. In fact, as I get to my feet and look around the drawing room, I can't help wondering exactly what I'm going to do with myself in this place. It was all well and good when I planned to shut off part of the house and just live in one side, but now that idea seems rather morbid. With the fireplace casting a flickering glow across the room, I'm momentarily struck by the absolute grand silence of Ashbyrn House, and the emptiness too.

“What do you think?” I ask, looking down at Bob. “Too big? Too much space for just the two of us?”

Slipping out of my wet coat, which I set on the floor so that perhaps the fireplace will dry it a little, I head back through to the hallway. My own footsteps sound loud and harsh in the echoey space, while rain is still lashing down against the windows. Finally I stop at the foot of the stairs and look up toward the landing. I'm not a superstitious man, not by any means, but I'm quite pleased when a moment later I hear the crackling of the fire bringing life to the house, and a moment after that I hear Bob scurrying through to join me. There's a light-switch nearby, so I give it a flick, but of course the damn thing doesn't actually work.

“Don't worry,” I mutter, as much to myself as to the dog, “I'll get everything up and running in the morning. Right now, maybe we should take a look around.”

I wander past the stairs and over toward the door at the far end of the hallway. If memory serves, this should lead to a corridor that runs all the way through the center of the house. Before I get more than a few steps toward the open door, however, Bob hurries past me and then stops, snarling at the cold, empty darkness ahead.

“What's wrong?” I ask, stopping next to him.

He continues to snarl, and I can't help noticing that the hackles on the back of his neck are rising.

“Stop it,” I continue, reaching down and patting his flank. “Come on, there's no need to be like this. You're just -”

Suddenly he barks, as if something on the other side of the open door, something in the pitch-darkness of the house, is upsetting him. He barks again, then again, and now he seems to be almost shaking with anger.

“Well, obviously you can be a guard dog when you want to be,” I say with a faint smile, amused by his apparent dislike of the house's innards. “You can stay through here if you like, but I really want to go and take a look around.”

I hold my phone up for him to see.

“Don't worry, though. I've got this to light my way.”

He barks again, but I ignore him and make my way over to the dark doorway. I don't know what's gotten into that dog, but I suppose maybe he spotted a spider or something else that made him uncomfortable. He barks yet again, but I don't have time to indulge his silliness. Instead, holding my phone up so that I can at least see a few feet ahead, I step through the door and head deeper into the vast emptiness of Ashbyrn House. My new home.

Chapter Eigh t

Katinka - 1859

“Are you okay?” Mother asks as I enter the drawing room. “Katinka, you look rather pale.”

“I'm fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. Why must she meddle? “I was merely spending some time alone, thinking about all the people who will be coming to the house next week. This wedding is going to be -”

I wince as I feel a rush of pain in my side. Glancing first at Mother, and then at Pippa, I can tell immediately that they both noticed. Fortunately, while Pippa is certainly the kind of foolish young girl to blurt out an unguarded question, Mother is far more reserved. I am quite sure that – being a woman herself – Mother will quite understand that a lady can suffer certain difficulties that are best left unmentioned.

“Tea before bed, my dear?” Mother asks, as if to prove my point.

“Perhaps just the one,” I reply, making my way over to the chair in the corner. I ease myself down, despite the searing pain in my side.

Pippa is watching me intently. If Mother leaves the room, I shall undoubtedly be bombarded by questions. Until then, however, I'm sure I shall be quite safe. Turning, I see that there are several of those awful long-legged spiders on the wall next to me. Evidently the beasts are still emerging from cracks in the wall. Father would never have allowed the house to become so decrepit, but at least Charles will have the necessary repair work done.

Reaching out, I press a finger against one of the spiders, crushing its pinhead-sized body against the wallpaper and leaving the legs to twitch for a moment. A faint smile crosses my lips as I kill a second spider, and then a third, and then several more.

“Is Charles coming tomorrow?” Mother asks, focusing on her needlework.

“I believe so,” I reply, as I kill again.

“What's wrong?” Pippa whispers.

I ignore her. The question is insipid.

“Katinka?” she continues. “Are you murdering more spiders? What's wrong, are -”

“Nothing's wrong!” I snap, turning to her.

“I imagine it'll be his last visit before the wedding,” Mother continues, as if she heard neither Pippa's question or my reasonable response. “With these rich men, their most valuable asset is their time. You must remember that once you're married to him, Katinka. He'll be off on business as often as not, so you mustn't develop a jealous or a possessive nature. You must simply content yourself with the job of tending to your home, and you must look after your husband when he is around. And, of course, there will hopefully be children in the not-too-distant future.”

“Hopefully,” I whisper, unable to hide a faint, blushing smile as I take my bible from the table and open to a random page.

“You're bleeding,” Pippa whispers, kneeling next to my chair and leaning over the armrest. Why must she intrude like this? I can actually feel her hot, impatient breath against my hand.

“I'm sure I'm not,” I reply, not bothering to look at her.

“Yes you are. From your side.”

Startled, I look down at the side of my dress, and I'm shocked to see that a very faint hint of blood is starting to show through the seam. I thought I had patched my injury with sufficient care, but evidently my body betrays me.

“It's nothing,” I tell her, despite the increasing pain. Getting to my feet, I set the bible back down. “However, I think I shall retire for the night.”

“But you're bleeding!” she hisses, thankfully keeping her voice low so that our mother won't hear. Still, she stands, as if she means to follow me. “Katinka -”

“As I told you, it's nothing,” I continue, interrupting her. “I'm sure you have enough to be getting on with, Pippa. Please, focus on your own business and pay no attention to mine.”

“But -”

“Because I do not appreciate such things!”

She stares at me, clearly horrified, but I swiftly make my way past her and head to the door. I can feel the blood now, as if seeps through my undergarments, and I'm becoming a little dizzy in the head. Still, I know I can patch myself up properly, but first I shall need to retire to my room. A lady must be granted her privacy.

“No tea after all?” Mother asks.

“Not tonight.” I turn and smile at her, but she hasn't even looked up from her needlework. After a moment, I turn to Pippa and see that she's still gawping at me like some kind of weak-minded fool. “I have such a big week coming up, and I must ensure I get sufficient rest. I'm sure everyone wants me to be at my best when Charles comes tomorrow to make the final arrangements.”

With that, I turn and head out of the room, although I stumble a little as I reach the foot of the stairs. Fortunately, I was far enough away from the door by the time I became weak, so I'm sure neither Mother or Pippa noticed a thing. The pain in my side is starting to throb, but I already have a plan. I know exactly how to seal the wound, but first I must retire to my room and wait for the others to retire to theirs. And tomorrow, Charles will come. The sooner our wedding day is here, the better.

Feeling a tickling sensation on my hand, I look down just in time to see another spider crawling past my fingers and onto the banister. Without even thinking, I make a fist and crush the brute with such force that the entire railing shudders.

Chapter Nine

Owen - Today

“Nope.”

I flick the switch several more times, out of frustration rather than any real expectation of light, but still the kitchen remains dark.

“I'm going to call the power company in the morning,” I mutter, turning and holding my phone up so I can see the nearby counter-tops and the windows on the far side of the room, “and give them hell. They specifically promised they'd connect me before I arrived.”

Hearing a faint whimpering sound at my feet, I look down and see that Bob has finally joined me. For the past few minutes, he's been following me through the dark house and making no attempt to hide his reluctance. Having seemed fine when we arrived, he now appears rather cowed, as if something is causing him to feel unsettled. I guess he's probably just getting used to his new surroundings, although I can't help wishing that he'd lighten up just a little. Still, it feels good to have him around. If he wasn't here, I'd be talking to myself.

“Don't worry,” I tell him, “I'll get you a nice clean bed tomorrow, and some toys. I'll order them online and they'll be here within a day or two.”

I reach down and pat the top of his head, and he looks up at me with worried eyes. I swear, I never knew dogs could be so expressive.

Leaving him to skulk on the step, I make my way carefully across the kitchen until I reach the windows. Rain is still crashing down outside, but when I lower the phone I'm just about able to make out the woodshed over by the trees. For a moment, I can't help thinking back to the flash earlier when I thought I saw a hint of a presence while I was collecting wood, and I suppose the figure appeared to be standing right here at this window, where I am now. I turn and look around, in case I spot something that I might have mistaken for the edge of a face, and finally I see a set of hooks hanging over the cooker.

I tilt my head slightly.

I guess in the right light, one could be forgiven for imagining the presence of a figure. Fortunately, I've never been one for ghost stories and I'm quite certain that I simply saw a curiously-shaped patch of light. One thing's certain: Ashbyrn House is absolutely empty, apart from Bob and myself.

Suddenly Bob barks, and I turn to see that he seems agitated by something at the far end of the kitchen.

“Settle down!” I call out. “It's okay to be cautious about something new, but you don't need to make a song and dance. You'll get used to the place.”

I turn and look over toward the back door, and for a moment I can't help wondering how I'm even going to begin assembling enough furniture to fill this place. I have some stuff coming in a van, but still, Ashbyrn House is going to feel very empty.

“We'll both get used to it,” I add under my breath.

Bob barks again, and this time I swear he sounds a little shrill.

“Okay, you really need to stop doing that,” I tell him, heading back over and crouching next to him. I start patting his flank, although his hackles are up once again and he's still looking toward the far corner of the room. Turning, I hold my phone up, but the corner is completely bare. “See?” I continue, hoping to make him feel more relaxed. “Just a boring, empty corner in a boring, empty house.”

I pause for a moment.

“And a boring, empty man who's taken you in,” I add finally, before realizing that I'm in danger of becoming rather maudlin.

I sigh.

“Ignore me,” I tell Bob. “I'm just feeling rather sore and sorry for myself these days. You might find this hard to believe, but a couple of months ago I -”

I stop suddenly as I see several more spiders on the wall, next to the door. Just as I'm about to brush them away, I realize that something seems different about them. When I lean closer, I find that their little bodies appear to have been crushed and smeared against the plaster. In one or two cases, their legs are still twitching, so I guess they can't have died more than a few minutes ago.

I've never heard of self-crushing spiders before.

Suddenly there's a loud banging sound from above us. Bob immediately steps back and I look up, tilting my phone so I can see the ceiling as several more bangs right out somewhere in one of the rooms above us. I wait, telling myself that these bangs are perhaps an open window or the scuttlings of a stray mouse, but the noise continues for several more seconds, getting louder and angrier, before finally they stop as abruptly as they started.

I wait.

Silence.

“Okay,” I continue, slowly getting to my feet. “I have to admit, Bob... That was a little freaky. Good job I don't believe in ghosts, huh?”

I wait a moment longer, in case the noise returns, before looking down at Bob and seeing that he's staring at me with a helpless expression, as if he's waiting for me to make everything okay again.

“Well there's obviously not anything up there,” I tell him. “I don't have a clue what caused that noise, but I'll find out and I promise it's something totally harmless. In fact, I'll -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that I've been in Cornwall for a grand total of about five hours and now I'm already having extended conversations with a dog. If Charlie could see me right now, he'd be having a field day.

“You're welcome to stay down here,” I tell Bob as I turn and head back out to the corridor, “but I'm going to take a look up there and see what the fuss is about.”

Bob immediately lets out a low growl.

“Well I have to go and look!” I point out, turning back to him. “Would you rather we both just cower down here for the rest of the night? You'll feel a lot better once I've -”

I pause, and then I let out another sigh as I realize I'm definitely talking to the dog too much.

“Just stay here,” I add, heading out into the corridor. “You really aren't the best guard dog in the world, are you?”

By the time I get to the foot of the stairs, I'm starting to feel just a little silly. After all, I know that the banging sound was caused by something completely normal and natural, because that's just the way the world works, but I can't deny that there's a sliver of fear in my chest. Or if not fear, then at least doubt. I know this is just my baser human emotions taking over, and that this primitive superstition is something I must fight, but I feel a little uncertain as I look up into the pitch-black upper floor of the house. I mean, what if there's a burglar?

I stay completely still for a moment, letting the silence settle all around me. Silence is good. Silence is what I came for.

Finally I start making my way up, and the steps creak slightly as I climb up into the cold and dark. The air around me feels a little damp, almost clammy, and I've got to admit that I'd rather abandon this plan and go back downstairs. The fireplace is casting a glow from the drawing room and I'd like to sit there for a while, warming myself, but I refuse to let doubts and fears take root in my mind. Even if, by the time I get to the top of the stairs, I'm actually shivering again.

“I really need to get the heating fixed tomorrow,” I mutter darkly, before hearing a bump downstairs.

Turning, I hold my phone up and see Bob at the bottom of the stairs, wagging his tail as he watches me.

“You can come up if you want,” I tell him.

He remains in place, although after a moment he lets out a faint whimper. He seems agitated, as if he wants to follow me but doesn't quite have the courage.

“You're going to feel so silly when I show you what caused that noise,” I continue. “This is a big house, Bob, and it's old. It's gonna creak and groan every now and then, especially when the weather's bad. You're gonna have to get used to it. Come on, why don't you bite the biscuit and come take a look?”

I pat the side of my leg, hoping to encourage him up, but he simply lets out another low grumble.

“Don't look at me like that, Bob! Come on!”

He settles down and lowers his head, resting his chin on the ground. Somehow, he looks even sadder than before.

“Fine,” I mutter, turning and making my way along the dark corridor, with only the light from my phone to guide the way. “I reserve the right to rib you for this, though.”

Rain is still lashing down outside, and I can hear a few distant drips in the distance. I guess there might be one or two holes that need fixing, and after a moment I hear an absolutely howling gust of wind that seems to be racing through the rafters of the attic above me. It's quite clear that Ashbyrn House needs some work, although I knew that when I bought the place. As I stop at the first door, however, I can't help wondering whether I've bitten off a little more than I can chew. After all, I'm definitely not the handyman type.

Pushing the door open, I hold my phone up and look through to see a large, empty room.

“I definitely need some furniture,” I say with a sigh, before turning and making my way toward the far end of the corridor. “And curtains. And -”

Suddenly I hear a brief click over my shoulder. I turn, half expecting to find someone behind me, but the phone's light merely picks out the wall panels. I have to admit, my heart is racing just a little, and I feel as if – despite my best efforts and the rigors of a rational mind – the house is starting to get to me. It's at this point that a more superstitious individual would crack.

In the distance, Bob lets out another brief moan.

“Oh, get over it,” I mutter, turning and making my way further along the corridor. I pick up the pace a little, feeling as if I've spent enough time creeping about in my own home, but when I get to the far end I find myself facing yet another door, while the corridor takes a ninety-degree turn to the left and heads off toward a darker part of the house.

Pushing the door open, I find yet another empty room.

“So far, so good,” I whisper, pulling the door shut and then turning to head along the next corridor. “I just -”

Before I can get another word out, the light from the phone briefly catches the wall at the corridor's far end, and for a fraction of a second I see the outline of a woman wearing a wedding dress. I stop, startled by the sight, and the phone slips from my hand.

Taking a step back, I'm already telling myself that I must be mistaken.

“It's not her,” I whisper involuntarily, already thinking back to the bride I glimpsed in London. “It's not!”

With the phone on the floor, all I see ahead of me now is pitch darkness, but in my mind's eye the memory of the woman is still very clear. I saw no features, really nothing more than a silhouette, but I know I wasn't mistaken.

I wait, watching the darkness, listening for any hint of movement.

Finally, in the distance, there's a very faint creaking sound.

“That's just the wind,” I tell myself. “ Just the wind.”

As if to back me up, I hear a howling gust whistling through the rafters.

I hesitate for a moment, before crouching down and picking up the phone. I keep my eyes fixed on the corridor ahead, just in case anything is at the far end, and then I slowly raise the phone again, letting its light creep along the corridor until finally I see the far end again.

The bride is still there.

Except...

I tilt my head, watching the silhouetted woman for a moment, and then I allow myself a faint smile as I realize that there's a frame running all the way around her. Getting to my feet again, I start making my way forward, and with each step I feel a little more relaxed until I eventually reach the end of the corridor and find myself face-to-face with a large painting.

“Well, you sure gave me a fright,” I whisper, holding my phone up higher so that I can see the cracked canvas.

Sure enough, the painting shows a life-size image of a woman wearing a white wedding gown. She looks a little similar to the bride I spotted a couple of times back in London, although I quickly remind myself that every wedding dress basically looks the same. The woman's face is hidden by a thick veil, which keeps me from seeing more than the faintest outline of a human head, while her hands are covered by the flowers she's holding. She's standing outside somewhere, maybe even in the grounds of Ashbyrn House itself, and there's something very calm and stately about her, even if the painting seems pretty old.

Reaching out, I press a fingertip against the surface, only to accidentally dislodge a flake of paint.

“So,” I mutter, taking a step back so I can better admire the painting in its entirety, “all the furniture was taken away, but the previous owners left this behind? Great.”

I have to admit, the painting is pretty imposing, and the color palette is a little too focused on yellows and browns for my liking. Less Turner or Lowry, more Raeburn or Frith, although the artist was clearly talented. Then again, I'm no expert when it comes to art. That was more Vanessa's area. Still, I know what I like, and I definitely don't fancy having this monstrosity hanging here, so I step closer again and take hold of the frame, giving it a gentle tug. After just a moment's work, I manage to lift the painting off the wall, although I quickly find that it's much heavier than I'd anticipated. I set it down on the floorboards and then I start sliding it over to the other side of the corridor, where I turn it around and lean it carefully against the wall so that I'm left facing the back of the frame.

“Sorry,” I say out loud, with a hint of a smile. “I don't mean to be rude, but...”

Pausing, I see that somebody has left some penciled words on the frame's edge. Holding my phone up, I try to decipher the spindly handwriting.

“Catherine...”

I squint a little.

“Something... Ashbyrn? Katherine? Katia? Katinka?”

There's a year, too. 1859.

“Miss Ashbyrn, 1859,” I whisper. “I guess you had a pretty fancy wedding.”

There's some tape on the back of the painting, too, as if a repair has been made at some point. I've got to admit, the frame itself is pretty nice, even if I don't entirely like the painting itself.

“Sorry, whoever you were,” I say as I check to make sure that the damn thing isn't about to fall down and scare the dog witless. “I'm sure you look lovely, but you're not my idea of a nice painting. You'll be going in the shed tomorrow, along with -”

Suddenly there's a very loud banging sound nearby. Turning, I use my phone to light the corridor, and this time I'm certain that the sound came from the room at the far end. I really don't feel like experiencing any more surprises tonight, but I make myself walk swiftly to the next door and push it open, only to find that a window has been left unfastened. Sure enough, a moment later there's another gust of rain-lashed wind, and the window slams shut before swinging open again.

“Really?” I sigh, heading over and finding that plenty of rain has been blown inside. I pull the window shut and secure it properly, and I can't help thinking that I should have realized right from the start that the noise was caused by something so mundane.

Stepping back, I look around the room, but there's absolutely nothing here. I don't know how I'm going to even begin filling this house with furniture, and in fact I'm starting to think that maybe I really could just leave a lot of the rooms bare. Ashbyrn House boasts far too many bedrooms, and whereas I used to think that it'd be fun to have so much space, now I'm becoming more and more aware of the daunting task I've created for myself. I guess maybe, in the back of my mind, part of me quite liked the romantic idea of coming to live all alone in a big old empty house.

I'll get used to it.

And besides, I'm not alone. I've got Bob.

Heading back along the corridor, I see that the painting is still resting against the wall, still turned so that the image of the bride isn't visible. As I walk past, however, I spot a faint patch of darkness on the back of the frame, and I stop for a moment to take a look. I swear there was no darkness just a few minutes ago, but now it looks as if something has stained the wood on the rear of the painting. I run my hands against the patch, in case there's some water damage, but it seems completely dry. Stepping back, I keep my phone raised and after a moment I realize that the stain looks vaguely human shaped. It's almost as if the bride in the painting has begun to seep through to the rear of the frame. I guess she didn't like being turned around and forced to face the wall.

Or, more likely, there's just a weird damp patch that happens to have taken a vaguely human shape.

“Nice try,” I mutter, turning and heading along the corridor, making my way toward the top of the stairs, “but I don't scare that easily.”

Outside, the wind is howling louder than ever, and I can hear rain still lashing against the windows. It's almost as if the elements are trying to scrub the house away. A moment later, I hear Bob starting to bark in the hallway.

“Okay, Bob!” I call out as I get to the stairs and look down to see him sitting standing in front of the dining room door, barking angrily at nothing. “I think I've had enough of this place for one night. How about we get some sleep and take a proper look around in a few hours?”

Heading down, I pat his side and find that once again his hackles are raised. I look through toward the darkened dining room, but of course there's no sign of anything untoward.

“Leave it out,” I continue, starting to feel a little irritated by his refusal to pipe down. “The man in the pub said you're not much of a guard dog, Bob. I'm glad you're proving him wrong, but please, let's just cut out the ear-piercing sound for the rest of the night. Deal?”

He doesn't stop, of course. Even when I pick him up and carry him away from the door, he's still furiously barking at some imagined threat. I'm starting to think that taking this dog into my home might not have been the best idea after all. Not if he insists on barking at thin air. Just as I'm about to turn and take him upstairs, however, I spot a dark shape in the next room.

“Huh,” I mutter, peering through and seeing that a large mahogany desk has been left behind by the previous owners. “I guess I'm getting a little help in the furniture department after all.”

Chapter Ten

Katinka - 1859

With a gloved hand, I reach for the poker that I have left sitting for some time now in the fire. The end is glowing red hot, and I am quite sure that it must be ready.

I take one final look over my shoulder, to make sure that everybody else is upstairs asleep, and that I shall not be disturbed tonight, and then I move the poker to my bloodied side and press the burning metal against the wound. The pain is intense, unlike anything I have felt before, but at least the affected area will not bleed again. Still, it takes all my strength to keep from screaming and waking the rest of the house, and I've barely even started.

This will take me all night. And yet when morning comes, I must be up and ready to receive Charles, and I must ensure that nobody knows I am in pain.

Chapter Eleven

Owen - Today

Morning sunlight streams between the branches of the trees, casting dappled light across the lawn. The grass is still a little wet underfoot as I wander away from the house and over toward the old ruined church, but for the most part the storm seems to have finally given up on its attempt to blow us all away. I guess the house is a stronger than it looks, which is fortunate since it looks pretty rundown.

“Bob!” I call out, tramping past the edge of the trees and around to the next clearing, carrying the heavy painting toward the shed. “Come on! This way!”

Turning, I see that Bob is busy sniffing a patch of grass, although after a moment he starts hurrying after me. He seems to be a cautious dog, and it's clear that he doesn't want to be alone out here.

“What do you think about that?” I ask as I stop and look at the ruined church ahead. Setting the painting down for a moment, I watch as Bob scurries on ahead and starts sniffing the bricks. “I'm not a superstitious man,” I continue, “but I've got to admit, having a church in the garden is a little... different. Maybe I should start taking an interest in the history of the house some time after all.”

Bob continues to examine the bricks for a moment, before turning and inelegantly raising his back leg.

“I think that's sacrilegious,” I tell him, picking the painting back up and heading toward the shed as Bob finishes peeing. “You want to make sure no-one catches you doing that!” I shout back to him. “Some of the locals might not be too happy!”

It takes a few minutes to discover which is the right key for the shed door, but finally I get the damn thing open and find myself staring at a dark and damp-smelling interior. I haul the painting inside and prop it against the wall, once again with the picture of the bride facing away from me, and then I take a step back. There's still a very clear human-shaped stain on the back of the painting, and if anything the outline is a little clearer than before. I have no idea what's soaking through or how, but something definitely seems to have caused an upset.

Still, I don't suppose it matters too much. Out of sight, out of mind, and I figure the painting can just rot in here for the rest of time.

“Seeya,” I mutter, stepping back outside and taking a moment to lock the door again. The key doesn't seem to want to turn properly, and finally I give up, leaving the shed unlocked. If somebody wants to come and steal a crumby old painting, I'm not going to try to stop them.

Heading back across the clearing, I see that Bob is still exploring the ruins of the old church. He looks less timid than before, as he follows scents that seem to criss-cross the lines of the brickwork. He's a persistent dog, that's for sure, and he definitely seems to be onto something. Then again, I imagine the land around Ashbyrn House is teeming with wildlife, so Bob's probably just picked up the scent of a badger or some other critter.

Wandering over, I watch him for a moment before stepping around a line of brickwork and look up toward the old tower.

And then, spotting movement nearby, I turn and look toward the main house, just in time to see a figure walking past one of the windows. I freeze, and the figure is already out of view, but there's definitely someone else inside Ashbyrn House.

***

“Well that's where they made their mistake, then,” Andy mutters as he carries another bag of tools through the front door. “See, when they gave me the key and told me to come fix the electric, they said you wouldn't here before Monday. And today's Saturday, so -”

“It's fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I'm sorry I came rushing in like that, I just...”

My voice trails off. To be honest, I probably seemed like a madman, but deep down I'm more than a little relieved to find that the figure at the window just now turned out to be a man who'd come out to do some work on the house. My heart-rate is just about getting back to normal, and Bob seems happy enough with the visitor. In fact, as Andy opens the cupboard under the stairs and starts poking around inside the fuse box, I can't deny that I'll be glad once the lights have been fixed.

One night in the dark at Ashbyrn House is more than enough.

“Shouldn't take long,” he explains, as several spiders scuttle away from the equipment and make their way into the shadows. “You're connected to the grid, but the fuse box is no good. I need to switch it out for something more modern.”

“That sounds great,” I tell him, heading to the door that leads through to the main corridor. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“You weren't here last night without any juice, were you?”

I turn to him. “I arrived pretty late.”

“Huh.” He starts unscrewing a panel. “What about that painting? What are you gonna do with it?”

“I -”

Stopping suddenly, I can't help wondering how he even knows about the damn thing.

“It's upstairs, isn't it?” he continues, glancing at me. “I've never seen it myself, but I've heard plenty of stories. If you ask me, you should just take the risk and burn the damn thing, frame n'all. I mean, seeing as you're not from round here, maybe you could get a fresh start.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I tell him.

“The painting,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “You must've found it, it'll be in -”

“I found the painting,” I continue, interrupting him. “What I don't understand is why it matters.”

“Well, it's of her , isn't it?”

I wait for him to continue. “Her?”

“ Her . Her Ladyship.”

Again, I wait, but he seems to think I should already know what he's babbling on about.

“Lady Ashbyrn,” he adds, less-than-helpfully. “Katinka Ashbyrn.”

“Katinka?”

“I expect you know all about her,” he continues. “Like I said, I've never actually seen the painting, but I've always wondered about it. I don't wanna go and take a look now, but... Well, is it, you know...”

His voice trails off.

“Is it what ?” I ask, trying not to sound too exasperated.

“Is it... horrible?”

“It's not exactly a masterpiece,” I mutter. “I certainly won't be taking it to Sotheby's to get it appraised, but it's not the worst thing I've ever seen.”

“Sure, but...”

Again, whatever's bothering him, he seems unable to spit it out.

“Well, what I mean is, is it... nasty-looking?”

“You mean, is it haunted?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“That's one way of looking at it.”

“I'm sorry,” I reply, feeling as if I've let this conversation play out for far too long already, “but I really have to get on with some work. Any local hysteria concerning the house is none of my concern. If you know of anyone who'd like to take the painting off my hands, free of charge, then please tell them to pop by some time. Otherwise, I'm sure it'll make a fine addition to a bonfire some time in the next few days.”

“You can't take it out of the house!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Even if you don't believe in that sorta thing,” he continues, “there's no harm in just popping it in one of the rooms and shutting the door and forgetting about it. That's what I'd do, rather than leaving it out somewhere. But whatever you do, don't take it out of the house. You must know the stories about what happens to people who even try.”

I open my mouth to tell him I don't want to know, but I can't deny an inkling of natural human curiosity.

“What happens to people who try to take the painting outside?” I ask.

“Well, they don't manage it,” he tells me. “It's not supposed to be taken out, not that painting. The last fella who tried, back when the Ashbyrns were first thinking of selling up, he dropped dead on the stairs. That's what they say.”

“I see.” I can't help smiling. “You're saying that the painting is haunted in some way? And that if I so much as try to take it out the front door, some awful fate will befall me?”

“Just leave it be. Don't tempt fate.”

“And what would you say,” I continue, “if I told you that I carried that exact painting outside about half an hour ago, and I put it in the shed?”

“Well...”

He seems shocked for a moment. Too shocked to say a word.

“It's the only painting in the house,” I add. “A woman wearing a bridal dress. That's the one you're so concerned about, isn't it?”

“Well... Yes, but... You took it outside?”

“I did.”

“Right outside?”

“All the way to the shed.”

“And nothing...” He looks me up and down, as if he genuinely can't quite believe what I'm telling him. “And nothing happened to you?” he adds finally.

“Not that I'm aware of,” I reply. “So as you can see, you're a little late to come and warn me about the damn thing. If a terrible spook should happen to come and seek revenge, I'll be sure to let you know. I assume I can find you at the local pub each evening? Is that where everyone gathers to share ghost stories about Ashbyrn House?”

He seems genuinely perturbed for a moment.

“I should get on,” he mutters finally, turning back to resume his work on the fuse box, where yet more spiders quickly retreat from view.

He adds something else under his breath, something I don't quite catch, but I'm hardly of a mind to ask him to say it again. Instead, I turn and head back along the corridor, and I'm quite pleased to find that Bob follows me all the way through to the room next to the kitchen, where I've set up my laptop on the desk I discovered last night. Until my furniture arrives in a few days' time, I'll have to make do with a rather primitive means of living, but at least there'll be no distractions to keep me from working. And fortunately, the desk came with a rather fine old chair.

Taking a seat, I open my laptop and see that I have 75% battery remaining. Hopefully there'll be some power in the house before I run low, although I'm tempted to go outside right now and burn that stupid painting, just to prove a point. At least the electrician would have a story to tell his mates down the pub.

Putting all thoughts of revenge aside, I start writing, as Bob curls next to me and settles down to nap.

***

“Done!”

Before I even have a chance to look up from my work, the laptop's screen brightens slightly and the battery-charging indicator flashes to life, and I hear a distant beep that can only mean one thing.

Electricity.

I never thought such a simple amenity could gladden my heart.

Sure enough, when I look up, I see that the bulb high above me is now on, and I feel a flash of relief at the realization that I won't have to spend another night here in the dark. I wince a little as I get to my feet, feeling a flash of pain in my back, and then I make my way out to the corridor with Bob in tow.

“You won't have any more trouble with this,” Andy says, closing the panel on the new fuse box as I reach the hallway. “Like I mentioned earlier, the wiring in the house is basically good. My old man did the place up a few years ago, back when the Ashbyrns were still in charge. Of course, he and his mates made sure that none of them were ever alone here. They always worked in pairs, just in case.”

He crouches down and starts taking some plastic clips off a set of pipes.

“I know you don't like talk about the house,” he continues, “but would you mind if I just say one more thing?”

Sighing, I realize he's probably not going to let it go. Better to give him his chance, I suppose, and then to hope that I never have need of his services again.

“It wouldn't hurt you to put the painting back,” he tells me.

I immediately sigh.

“Hear me out,” he adds, still working to remove some clips from the pipes. “There's no harm in just carrying it back inside and sticking it in a room. That way, you don't risk causing any trouble, and hopefully she'll leave you alone.”

“She?” I ask, even though it's painfully obvious that this is part of some painfully earnest local hysteria.

“Lady Ashbyrn,” he continues. “You're not one of her lot, so she might not have a problem with you. Apparently it was always her blood relations she bore a grudge against. But, well, it's always been said that she wants the painting to stay here. That's why the family didn't have it removed with the rest of the stuff when they left. You don't have to understand or even believe the stories, but -”

“But I should move the painting inside, in case a dead woman gets upset?” I ask.

He reaches down to remove the last of the clips.

“They say she's angry,” he continues. “They say she was a right bitch when she was alive, and after she died she came back to -”

Suddenly there's a flash and a bag, and Andy lets out a pained groan as he slumps away from the cupboard and falls to the floor. Hurrying over to him, I kneel and immediately check his pulse, but he's already mumbling something under his breath and starting to sit up.

“Steady,” I tell him. “What happened? Didn't you isolate it properly?”

“I did, I swear,” he stammers, staring at the rubber clips on the pipes. “There's no way they should be able to give me a shock. Not unless...”

His voice trails off, and after a moment he looks up toward the ceiling.

“Those pipes run up through the main part of the house,” he continues, before getting to his feet and brushing himself down. Before he can finish, there's a sudden loud bump from directly above us.

We both look up, but the bump has already faded and the house is once again quiet.

“Obviously you got something wrong,” I tell him. “I hope my entire house isn't wired for shocks.”

He steps cautiously over to the cupboard. Taking out a handheld device, he holds the end against the pipes, and then he uses the back of his right hand to check that there's no charge. Once he's tried a couple of times, he turns to me.

“It's safe now,” he says, swallowing hard. “I don't know what caused that, but...”

He pauses, before turning and reaching down to quickly put all his tools back into his bag.

“Must have been the ghost,” I mutter, relieved that he's okay but slightly amused by the fact that he worked himself into such a fever in the first place. Clearly he didn't have his mind on the job. “Maybe she didn't like all the advice you were giving me.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, hauling his bag onto his shoulder and then hurrying to the front door.

“Send me your bill!” I call after him.

He stammers a reply, but he seems to be in a real hurry to get out of here. Once he's gone, I take another look at the cupboard and then I swing the door shut before heading to the window and looking out at the driveway. I half expect to see Andy's van screeching away in a rather comical manner, but instead I see that he's sitting in the driver's seat and talking to somebody on his cellphone. He still looks panicked, and I imagine he's spewing out more of his nonsense about the house being haunted. The yarn-spinners at the pub will have a field day.

Never before have I felt so certain that I was right to come here. I want to avoid other people as much as possible. Both the living and the dead. In fact, moving to a supposedly haunted house might have turned out to be a masterstroke. If a few ghost stories scare the locals away, then that's fine by me.

And of course, at that precise moment, I spot a large van heading this way, and I realize my furniture has finally arrived. I guess I'm going to have to be social and friendly to yet more strangers.

Chapter Twelve

Katinka - 1859

“It will be the most magnificent wedding the county has ever seen,” Charles exclaims as he leads us across the sun-drenched lawn. “People are already talking about it. Why, I suspect word will even reach as far as Bristol and Bath. Maybe even London!”

“Do you really think so?” Mother asks, her eyes wide with anticipation as she turns to me. “Did you hear that, Katinka? Your wedding is going to be the highlight of the county's social calendar! People are going to be talking about Ashbyrn House again!”

“I hardly think so,” I reply, remembering to seem humble even though I'm positively bursting at the seams. The thought of people in London talking about my wedding, talking about me , is almost too much to bear. And deep down, I feel that the attention is nothing less than our family deserves. “Still,” I continue, “we must do our best to make everybody proud. One only gets one chance to hold a wedding, after all.”

“And your dress is in order?” Charles asks, turning to me.

“Of course.”

“It's the most beautiful dress you ever saw!” Mother tells him. “I saw Katinka try it on, and it's exquisite. It just needs a few tiny alterations, to let it out in a few places, and then -”

“Mother!” I hiss.

“What?”

“Do not say such things!” I grab her arm and hold her back, and then I wait a moment as Charles goes ahead to check on the preparations at the church. “Do not inform my future husband,” I continue, lowering my voice, “that my wedding dress is to be let out an inch! I don't want him thinking that I'm fat!”

“You? Fat?” She laughs. “Don't be ridiculous, child! You're -”

Before she can finish, I slap her hard on the side of the face. I know I shouldn't do such a thing, and indeed I regret my moment of anger as soon as it's over, but sometimes she pushes me too far. And since she knows my temper, this little provoked outburst is as much her fault as it is mine.

She steps back, clearly shocked.

“Do not call me ridiculous!” I say firmly. “You might have been content to let Ashbyrn House slide into decrepitude since Father died, but I am marrying a man who has the money to restore our home to its rightful condition! You will hold your tongue around him, and you will most certainly not say anything that casts me in a bad light! Is that clear?”

“Katinka...”

I raise my hand again. “Is that clear?”

“Yes!” she stammers, nodding frantically. “Of course! I'm sorry, my dear, I didn't even think that I might be speaking out of turn!”

“Well think in future,” I reply, before taking a deep breath. “I know you're not accustomed to using your brain, but I'm sure you can manage at least a few rudimentary moments of good sense. This wedding is to be perfect. Anyone who puts my plans in jeopardy will...”

I pause for a moment, and I can already feel my blood starting to boil. Mother looks so supine and pathetic right now, and I find it hard to believe that she'd risk making me look bad in front of Charles. Then again, since Father died, I suppose Mother has been rather left to her own devices, and perhaps her wretched mind has begun to go soft.

“Don't push me,” I add finally, before taking a step back. “Perhaps you should return to the house and make sure Pippa isn't making errors with the tea. It's bad enough that we have nobody to do that for us. Charles must think we're wretchedly poor, since we can't even afford a little woman to keep the house tidy. I'm embarrassed to have him here, but there'll be changes once I'm married and my husband and I take control of Ashbyrn House.”

“Katinka...”

“Go back inside!” I snap. “Now!”

She turns and scurries back across the lawn. I know Mother has done her best since Father died, but her best has been a disaster and she's frightfully ill-equipped to run a household. By marrying Charles, I shall be elevating our family back to the rightful position we lost following Father's death. I just wish I could be given a little more credit for all my sacrifices and hard work.

Once Mother has disappeared into the house, I take a moment to gather my thoughts and then I make my way around the line of trees. Charles is over near the church door, inspecting another part of his future property, and I can't help but notice his fine profile and the way he carries himself as a confident, powerful man. He already looks at home here, and I am certain he will be a wise and effective owner once he takes control of Ashbyrn House on our wedding day.

“Do you like it?” I ask, stepping closer.

He turns to me. “Do I like what ?”

“I used to play here as a girl,” I continue, smiling as I look up at the bell tower. “As silly as this might sound, I often wondered what it would be like to get married on this very spot. I still have the bible inside that Father gave me one day, back when I was just a child. Pippa lost hers, but I always kept mine safe. It's the exact same bible the priest will use next week when he marries us. All my dreams are coming true.”

He mutters something under his breath as he goes to the door and pushes it open.

“There are spiders everywhere in this wretched place,” he adds finally. “They make my skin crawl.”

“I kill them whenever I can,” I tell him. “Is that morbid?”

I wait for him to reply, but he seems more interested in the door itself, which he seems to be checking for sturdiness.

“I often wonder what it must be like to be dead,” I continue, hoping that perhaps I can tell Charles things that I keep from other people. “Whether it is merely oblivion that awaits us, or whether there might be something else. But if there is something else, then can it really be called death? Or would it just be another stage, another level of life?”

Again I wait, but he doesn't seem to be listening.

“So every time I kill a spider,” I add, “I think of its soul making the great discovery. Really, by now the house should be filled with the ghosts of spiders, but I've never found such a ghost yet. Not even one. I keep hoping, though. Do you think I'm frightfully silly?”

“Perhaps it would be wise to have it knocked down,” he replies, still examining the church.

I feel a rush of fear in my chest. “I'm sorry?”

He turns to me. “This church is old and decrepit, and it hasn't been in use for years. It's a relic, Katinka, and its main value is in the stones that form its walls. We could have the place torn down and then we could make a pretty sum if the stones were sent to one of the new projects in London.”

“You can't be serious,” I reply, stepping closer. “Charles, I won't allow it!”

“Who said you'd be asked for your opinion?” he continues. “Once we're married, Katinka, the entire estate will be mine. I haven't made my mind up yet, but dismantling the church is certainly a possibility. And if that is the decision I make, I would remind you that as my wife it is your job to provide unending support. Not to challenge me.”

I open my mouth to argue with him, before realizing that he's right. It's not my place to disagree. Still, I must remember that there is time yet to change his mind. Once we are married, I shall simply have to find some other way of persuading him. I am a woman, after all, and I am sure I can be subtle. Plus, once he falls in love with Ashbyrn House, he'll never dream of removing so much as a single brick or stone.

“But this is where we shall be married,” I point out. “That, at least, is settled.”

“Yes,” he mutters, not sounding particularly enthused by the idea. “I suppose it's too late to change our plans now.”

“And we will look after the house, won't we?” I continue. “Ashbyrn House is so dear to my heart. I have always longed to take a husband and improve the property.”

“Is that why you're marrying me?”

“Of course not!” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. “There are other reasons.”

“And they are?”

“The proper ones, of course.”

“And they are?”

I hesitate. He seems to be testing me for some reason, and frankly he's giving me a headache.

“I have need of an heir,” he continues, clearly unmoved. “ That shall be your priority once we're married. Do not worry about the house or its grounds, Katinka. They're not going to be any of your concern. Focus on conceiving an heir, and perhaps a girl too. I know women always seem keen to have little girls as well as boys. I require two boys. One to follow me, and one to act as a kind of spare in case something happens to the first. Beyond that, I am happy to produce one or two more children, including a girl if necessary. We must be pragmatic about these things.”

“Of course,” I reply, looking down at my hands.

“And now I should go and inspect the rest of the house,” he continues, heading past me. “I suppose your mother and your sister have laid on tea? Lord knows, I hope it tastes better than last time. This whole place has gone to the dogs, Katinka. I hope you realize how lucky you are, finding a man who is willing to take it all on by marrying you. Not many men would. Really, I'm something of a saint. I deserve a medal!”

“Of course,” I whisper again, turning and watching as he walks away. He might be a difficult man at times, but at least he is reliable, and he is precisely the type of man I have always wanted to marry. Finally, I shall be a bride.

Chapter Thirteen

Owen - Today

“Crazy? No, not yet. In fact, this might come as a surprise, but I think I'm actually starting to like it here.”

“You'll crack,” Charlie replies, his voice sounding a little tinny over the phone as I head through to the kitchen. “It's still new to you, but you'll go stir crazy all alone in that place.”

“I'm not alone. I told you, I adopted a dog.”

“First sign of madness.”

“I'm actually preferring his company to that of most people.”

“Second sign of madness.”

“Plus, Charlie, I happen to be getting a lot of -”

“Vanessa was here today.”

I tip a can of chopped tomatoes into a saucepan. For a moment, the mere mention of Vanessa's name is enough to set me off-balance, and it takes a few seconds before I'm able to think of anything to say. I suppose deep down, I'm hoping I misheard.

“Are you still there?” Charlie says finally. “I said Vanessa was here earlier.”

“That's nice,” I mutter, already wondering how I can end the phone call without feeding into Charlie's theory that I'm losing my mind. Heading over to another of the boxes that was delivered earlier, I open the top and start sorting through, searching for a frying pan. In the process, I have to swat away several more of these infernal spiders.

“She was wondering about you,” Charlie continues, his voice loaded with anticipation. He expects me to react. “She wanted to know what you're up to. She'd been to the flat and found you'd moved.”

“That's lovely.”

“But -”

“I'm making dinner,” I continue, even though my appetite has gone. Finding the frying pan, I set it aside for a moment. “Charlie, the only reason I called you was that I need to figure out who'll write the next three-month report. I'm almost -”

“Are you gonna call her?”

“Of course not.”

“But you said -”

“I lied.”

I wait for him to reply, but now he stays infuriatingly silent. I know he's going to launch into another of his long speeches about how I should hear Vanessa out and maybe think about giving her another chance, but I just -

Suddenly I hear a loud bump from somewhere upstairs, followed almost immediately by two more that seem to be making their way across one of the rooms above me. I look up, just in time to hear a door slamming shut.

“What was that?” Charlie asks.

I pause, waiting for an obvious answer to come to mind, and then I hear a faint growling sound nearby. Turning, I see that Bob once again has his hackles raised, and he's watching the door with a slow, simmering grumble that finally erupts into a series of loud barks. This behavior of his is becoming so regular, I almost find it tedious.

“Hey, come on,” I say, reaching down and stroking his back. “There's no reason to -”

I flinch as I hear a creaking sound from above, followed by what seems to be a series of footsteps. I swear, even though Bob and I are alone in the house, it sounds as if somebody is storming about up there, and I think they're at the far end of the main corridor. I know there can't be anyone, but as I slowly get to my feet and continue to watch the ceiling, I start to realize that I can't think of an alternative explanation. Not even an open window would make such a racket.

“Owen?” Charlie says after a moment. “Are you still there, buddy?”

“I'll call you back.”

“No way! I had a hard enough time getting hold of you as it is! What's wrong?”

“Nothing, but I have to call you back.”

“No. Effing. Way.”

“Fine, but you'll have to wait a moment.”

As he tries to argue with me, I set the cellphone down on the kitchen counter and head cautiously into the hallway. I'm not one for paranoia, and the logical part of my mind knows that there's definitely nobody else in the house, but I can't ignore the distinct sounds I heard just a few seconds ago. Stopping and looking up the stairs, I realize that I have to go and take a look, so I grab the metal poker from next to the fireplace – in lieu of an actual weapon – and start making my way up until I reach the landing. Bob whimpers briefly behind me, but I don't bother turning and telling him to relax. He'd never listen, anyway.

The house is completely quiet now, which somehow doesn't make me feel any better.

“Hello?” I call out.

Silence.

“This is dumb,” I mutter under my breath. “Get a grip, man. You're not some lily-livered cretin. You know full well that it was just the wind or...”

My voice trails off.

Try as I might, I can't quite convince myself that what I heard was just a gust of wind. Besides, I'm certain all the windows are shut, and I don't see how wind could sound like footsteps. There must be some kind of animal here, maybe a badger or even just a bird, and I need to chase it out before night falls and I'm left listening to bumps and creaks while I'm trying to sleep.

Several minutes later, however, I finish checking the final room and find myself back in the corridor, having found absolutely nothing to explain the sound of footsteps. For a moment, I actually start to feel as if I'm losing my mind, but I quickly pull myself together and focus on the fact that there's obviously some perfectly reasonable explanation that I haven't quite figured out yet. After all, a set of footsteps is really nothing more than a series of regularly spaced bumps, and I suppose it's conceivable that old pipes could bang and cause the floorboards to jump a little.

I mean, the idea is kind of far-fetched, but it's a little more likely than ghosts and ghouls.

Heading back downstairs, I tell myself that so long as the house stays quiet for the rest of the night, I should be able to put the sounds out of my mind. I have a long evening ahead of me, sorting out the furniture and bringing at least a semblance of normality to the place, and the last thing I need is to let myself get distracted. Still, by the time I get through to the kitchen, I'm so lost in thought that it takes a moment before I remember I left Charlie on the other end of the phone line. Grabbing my cellphone, I half expect him to have hung up.

Please God, let him have hung up.

“Are you still there?” I ask, trying not to sound irritated.

“Finally!” he mutters. “What the hell was all that about, Owen?”

“Nothing. I just went to check on a noise. I'm sorry if you were bored by the silence, but you could have just put the phone down. I promise I wouldn't have been offended.”

“Silence?” he replies. “What silence? You were making that noise the whole time.”

I carry the cellphone over to the frying pan, figuring that I should just get on with some cooking.

“Noise?” I ask with a sigh. “What noise?”

“It sounded like you were having an asthma attack. You don't get asthma, do you?”

“Huh?” Barely paying attention to him, I give the pan a wipe before taking it to the stove. “What are you talking about?”

“That weird breathing sound you were making,” he continues. “I heard you, you know. Were you trying to freak me out? I've got to admit, it was pretty weird when I heard you coming closer and closer to the phone, and then that scratching sound...”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I tell him. “I just had to go upstairs, that's all. I left the phone down here.”

“Bullshit!”

“And now I have to go,” I continue, heading over to another box and starting the hunt for a bottle-opener. “I still have to fix my bed up for the night, and get my folders ready so I can work in the morning. Send me an e-mail when you've figured out the details for the meeting. I should have internet set up here by early next week. But apart from that, please... You don't need to call me every time there's a slight problem at the office. I'm a silent partner now. That means being silent.”

Once the call is over, I turn back to the stove, ready to stir the tomatoes. Just as I'm about to dip the wooden spoon into the sauce, however, I see to my dismay that a solitary spider has already fallen into my dinner and died.

***

Opening my eyes, I'm startled to find that I must have dozed off at the dinner table. I sit up straight, and for a moment I don't quite remember how I got here. I made dinner, just a simple pasta bolognese that I managed to keep spider-free, and then I had a couple of glasses of wine, and then...

Something woke me.

A noise, breaking into a dream.

I look around the kitchen, but the place seems quiet and calm enough. A couple of seconds later, however, I hear the tip-tap of paws on the linoleum, and Bob hurries over to me. I reach down and pat his shoulders, but he sits next to me and turns to look toward the back door. I swear, this dog sure knows how to act spooked. Still, the room is quite dark now, so I suppose I should switch on some more lights.

“I must be turning into a lightweight,” I mutter, grabbing my phone and checking that there are no messages. “In the old days, Bob, I could drink a bottle of wine and I'd be -”

Suddenly I hear the distant, echoing toll of a bell.

I wait as the sound fades, but sure enough it returns just a few seconds later.

Bob lets out a faint whimper.

Getting to my feet, I switch on the main light, and then I head over to the back door and look out at the pitch-black garden, just as the bell tolls for a third time. It's definitely close, and it sounds large and heavy. Too close to be coming from the nearby town.

“Some nights,” I remember the realtor telling me when I first looked around this place, “you might briefly hear the sound of bells coming from this spot.”

“The hell I might,” I whisper, unlocking the back door and stepping out just as the bell rings out yet again.

This time, I can tell that the sound is coming from the direction of the ruined church behind the trees. Squinting in the darkness, I'm just about able to make out the silhouette of the church's tower against the starry night sky. I wait, telling myself that perhaps I'm wrong and that the sound is coming from further away after all, but a moment later I hear the bell again. It certainly sounds like an old church bell, but I know for a fact that there's no bell left at the ruins.

Behind me, Bob whimpers again.

“Let's nip this in the bud,” I mutter, reaching inside and grabbing the flashlight from the windowsill before making my way out into the cold night air and starting to trudge across the lawn.

Bob barks, as if to warn me.

“You can stay behind if you want,” I tell him, “but I'm going to take a look. Whatever's causing this infernal noise, I want it figured out before -”

The bell rings out again, and I must admit that I stop for a moment in the middle of the lawn. It takes a moment before I realize that I'm being foolish, and I quickly set off again, making my way around the far end of the tree-line and shining the flashlight forward until the beam of light catches the church's ruined bricks.

I stop and shine the beam all around, but there's no sign of anyone nearby.

“Hello?” I call out. “This is private property! I don't know what games you were used to playing when the place was deserted, but -”

Suddenly the bell rings out again, sounding louder than ever, and I instinctively look up and shine the flashlight toward the top of the ruined tower. The sound is definitely coming from up there, even though the tower itself is little more than a crumbling pile of bricks that tops out around ten, maybe fifteen meters above my head. There sure as hell is no way for a bell to be hidden up there, but at the same time I know what I heard.

A moment later, something brushes against my shoulder.

I spin around and shine the flashlight toward the trees, but there's no sign of anyone. Turning again, I shine the beam of light at the ruined church, half-expecting some giggling local child to be racing away through the darkness, but there's still no-one.

“This isn't funny!” I shout, convinced that someone's out here playing a prank on me. “If you think -”

Before I can finish, I hear something rattling along the driveway that leads to the front of the house. Turning, I shine the flashlight toward the trees, but the sound is getting closer and after a moment I realize it seems not to be a car at all. Instead, I think I'm hearing a horse-drawn carriage.

And then a brief, sudden scream fills the air.

Hurrying away from the ruined church, I make my way around the tree-line until I reach the driveway. Stopping, I shine the flashlight toward the pond, which is where the rumbling sound of hooves seems to be headed. After just a few seconds, the sound stops as abruptly as it started, so I start hurrying across the gravel. My heart is racing and I'm convinced that somebody's having a laugh at my expense, but I'm certainly not going to meekly retreat into the house and just hope that I'm left alone.

By the time I get to the edge of the pond, there's still no sign of anyone and the cold night's air has fallen silent again. I turn and shine the flashlight all around, but I still can't catch sight of whoever's tormenting me.

“Ashbyrn House is private property!” I call out. “Do you understand? It's mine now! If you've been playing here while it was empty, that's one thing, but the house is occupied now and you're trespassing. I just want to be left alone!”

Hearing a scratching sound over my shoulder, I turn just in time to see a flash of movement at the pond's far edge. A moment later there's a loud splash, and I see that the water looks to have been disturbed. Hurrying around the pond, I'm more certain than ever that somebody is trying to fool me, and it's clear that something was thrown into the water. When I get closer to the spot where something moved, however, I shine the flashlight down at the pond's surface and see nothing but dark, rippling water.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, turning and shining the flashlight all around, determined to spot some sign of whoever's behind this.

I wait, but all I hear is the sound of the trees ruffling in a faint breeze.

“You've had your laughs!” I yell. “I came here to be alone! Get off my property!”

There's still no hint of anyone. I guess they're hiding out of sight, probably with hands pressed over their mouths to stifle their giggles. Evidently some local idiots from the town have decided they just can't leave me be, and my mind is racing with thoughts of barbed wire, electrified fences and motion-sensitive floodlights. If these cretinous morons think they can make a sport of me, they've got another thing coming. I'll install whatever it takes to make sure that I'm left alone.

“We'll see who's laughing soon,” I mutter under my breath. “I'll have broken glass put on all the walls. Have fun trying to climb over those .”

It'll serve them right when they reach up, giggling and plotting some new bout of mischief, and feel their fingers slicing against the shards.

Sighing, I realize that there's not much more I can do tonight other than go back inside the house and refuse to give them the reaction they're after. Turning, I shine the flashlight down at the pond's surface one more time, and then I turn to -

Suddenly I stumble back, shocked by the sight of a pale face staring up at me from down at the bottom of the pond. I almost trip and fall, and in the process I manage to drop the flashlight. Picking it up with trembling hands, I aim the beam at the water again, but now there's no sign of the face. Still, I know what I saw, and suddenly I'm convinced that somebody must have fallen into the pond. There was a face, a woman's face, and she was staring at me with the calmest eyes.

Stepping closer to the edge, I shine the beam at the exact spot where I saw the face, but now the light is catching on the pond's rippled surface and I can't see into the depths at all.

Trying not to panic, I climb down into the pond, instantly sinking to my waist in freezing water, and then I reach down, desperately searching for whoever fell in. Finding no hint of anyone, I dive down until I can feel the pond's muddy bottom, but there's still nobody. I know I didn't imagine the face, however, so I dive again and again. Whoever's here, I can't let them drown.

Chapter Fourteen

Katinka - 1859

Staring up at the bedroom ceiling, I feel as if I might never sleep again.

Several hours after retiring for the evening, I'm bedeviled by pain in my side. I had always considered myself to be someone who can resist the worst agonies, and I felt I had a strong mind, but this pain is searing my soul and taking control of my thoughts. All through dinner with Charles and the others, I could barely even concentrate on a word that was being said. The worst part is that I'm still not done, and I know I must slice away more flesh tomorrow.

Spotting movement nearby, I turn and see yet another infernal spider crawling slowly through a patch of moonlight on the wall. I take my bible from the nightstand and reach up, using the book to crush the creature. With the bible pressed flat against the wall, I hesitate for a few seconds, wondering whether the spider's soul is now lost to the endless oblivion of death. Or do spiders not have souls at all? Perhaps not, and perhaps that explains why I never see their ghosts?

Slowly, I move the bible away from the wall and see the spider's crushed remains. I'm starting to think that, each time I kill another of the brutes, I merely end them completely. And if that's what happens to spiders, then maybe the same thing would happen to me if a giant book suddenly fell down and crushed me in my bed. I would blink out of existence, and I would be no more.

Just darkness.

Silence.

Nothingness.

No afterlife, no continuation. Just the end of me.

Finally I rise from the bed and slip into my gown, feeling as if I need to get out of this infernal room before I go completely crazy and have to be consigned to a sanitarium.

The house is dark and quiet, as it should be. Everybody else retired shortly after me, so now I am left to wander along the corridor and then to make my way down the stairs. I like Ashbyrn House best at night, when there is nobody else around to bother me, and sometimes I feel as if I would rather live a solitary life without another soul around. The idea is tempting, but at the same time I have always wanted a fine and strong husband. Charles is certainly both those things, and by the time I get to the bottom of the stairs I have put all thoughts of solitude out of my mind.

Some people embrace who they are, and some embrace who they want to be. I want to be a married woman, and a mother, and nothing else really matters. And I want a good, respectable husband. Is that too much to ask?

Stopping at the door to the study, I look through and see Father's old desk. When I was a girl, I used to love watching him work, and sometimes I even felt as if I would like to marry a man who possessed Father's exact qualities. Even now, when I see a man sitting down to write at a desk, I feel uncommonly interested in his work, and I feel I would be blissfully happy if I married such a man. Then again, happiness is not what matters. Charles might not be a man who spends much time at a desk, but at least he has money and is esteemed throughout the county. All things considered, he should be more than sufficient.

Perhaps I shall even one day pour him a glass of whiskey one day, the way I used to pour glasses for Father while he worked at his desk.

No.

Such thoughts are weak and unhelpful.

Charles is to be my husband, and I should not long for any other type of man. Stepping away from the door, I head through to the kitchen, and for a moment I try to imagine what it will be like when Charles and I are able to hire a maid and a cook. Charles has intimated on several occasions that he thinks we shall need help once we take control of Ashbyrn House, and I cannot wait for the day when we have some little woman scuttling about in the kitchen, preparing our food. Frankly, I think Mother was awfully wrong to get rid of our previous staff. No matter how difficult it might have been to find the money, she should have found a way to make ends meet.

People talk, and I'm sure there has been gossip about the decrepit state of Ashbyrn House. Still, the house shall rise again.

I turn to head back up the stairs, hoping to finally sleep, but suddenly I hear a faint bump somewhere in the darkness, followed by a giggling laugh. I look back across the kitchen, and sure enough there is another bump just a moment later. Whatever is going on down here, it would seem that somebody is in the pantry.

I open my mouth to call out, but then I hear more laughter, and I am quite sure that it is Pippa's voice that fills the otherwise quiet room.

After hesitating for a moment, I start making my way across the darkened kitchen, curious as to what might be amusing my dear sister at such a late hour. There's nothing in the pantry other than food and cooking supplies, and I honestly don't think I've ever even seen Pippa step through the door in the corner. As I get closer, however, I realize that the bumping sound – although muffled – is continuing with a rhythm of its own, and I can hear Pippa's gasped half-laughs, as if she's a little out of breath.

The door has been left open just a crack, and I can see the flickering light of a candle burning on the other side. I lean closer, setting my eye to the gap, and that is when I see something rather unsettling.

Or disappointing.

Yes, perhaps disappointing is the more appropriate word.

Pippa is on the floor, flat on her back, and Charles is on top of her. It is quite clear what they are doing, and Pippa is giggling like a fool as my fiance buries his face in her ample bare chest. The rhythmic thumping and slapping sound continues as his hips thrust into her over and over again, and a moment later I hear Charles letting out a frantic groan. Pippa laughs again and whispers something that I don't quite manage to hear, and then Charles slows, as if he has passed some peak.

Fearing that I might be spotted, I step back, but my heart is pounding and I can barely contain my irritation. I never truly expected loyalty from either of them. Just decorum and taste.

“We didn't make too much noise, did we?” Charles asks breathlessly.

“Don't be worrying about that,” Pippa replies. “Mother sleeps soundly enough, and Katinka isn't exactly the most inquisitive of souls. Besides, she needs her beauty sleep before the wedding.”

At this, they both start laughing.

A moment later, I hear more bumps coming from the pantry. Unable to stifle my curiosity, I peer through the gap in the door again, just in time to see Charles disengaging himself from my sister. The sight is utterly horrific, and I am struck by the broad grin on Pippa's face.

“We must stop this once I am married,” Charlies mutters.

“And why's that?” Pippa asks.

“We cannot risk being found out.”

“And what would come of it?” she continues. “A man of your wealth is expected to have a mistress. And besides, if you expect any warmth or affection from my dear sister Katinka, you're going to be sorely disappointed. She's the kind of woman who'll most likely make you wear a blindfold before she so much as lets you into her bedroom. She's as cold and icy as the driven snow.”

“Still, it's not right. I don't want any scandals. We should at least stop for six months, until I've had time to impregnate Katinka.”

“Then perhaps you're marrying the wrong sister,” she suggests with a laugh. “I know Katinka is older, but she's rather staid and boring. Frankly, I've often found her to be an insufferable prig. At least if you were to marry me , you know there'd be no drought in the bedroom. And aren't I prettier, Charles? I must be. I'm younger, after all. Katinka is already showing her age, especially around the eyes. Why, her crow's feet are getting more noticeable by the day!”

“It's not that simple.”

Pippa laughs. “Because Katinka is the one who inherits the house?”

“You don't understand the business world.”

“I understand that your shipping company is effectively bankrupt,” Pippa tells him. “I understand that you claim to have far more money than is actually the case. Everybody thinks you're offering this family a lifeline by taking us on, but perhaps the reverse is true. Perhaps you're the one who's in need, dear Charles.”

“You shouldn't listen to gossip,” he tells her.

“Why not? Gossip is seldom untrue. Not wholly, anyway.”

Suddenly I hear footsteps coming toward the door. Startled, I step back, just as the door swings open. Fortunately I am hidden from view as Charles and Pippa step out into the kitchen, and it is equally fortunate that neither of them thinks to swing the pantry door shut again. Instead, I remain hidden as they wander back toward the hallway, although I can hear them still laughing and giggling. Finally they make their way up the stairs, no doubt congratulating one another on their subterfuge and deceit, but I do not immediately step out from my place behind the door.

Instead, I remain completely still as a sense of pure, cold-bloodied fury starts creeping through my chest. This is not, however, the type of fury that demands immediate action. Instead, it is the type that hardens one's heart. My wedding is in less than a week now. I shall not be denied, and I shall marry Charles. Still, I think perhaps I must remind certain people of my authority in this house.

Chapter Fifteen

Owen - Today

The diver climbs back out of the pond and immediately starts talking to the police officer. Even as they compare notes, I can already tell that nothing has been found, and a moment later the officer starts making his way over to me with a distinct lack of urgency.

“You have to keep looking,” I tell him. “Somebody fell in!”

Looking over toward the pond, I watch for a moment as early morning sunlight catches on the water. A few seconds later, hearing a car door opening, I turn just in time to see that the diver is slipping out of his wet-suit, as if he's done for the day.

“I'm not lying!” I say firmly, turning back to the officer. “Why would I make something like this up?”

He stares at me for a moment, before glancing toward the house.

“I saw someone!” I continue. “I heard a splash, and I saw someone under the water!”

He sighs again.

“Sir -”

“It was a woman!” I add. “I only saw her face for a second, but she was looking straight up at me! It was as clear as you are now!”

“A woman? In the pond?” He eyes me with suspicion for a moment, and it's very clear that he's not taking me at all seriously. “And would this woman happen to be the famous Katinka Ashbyrn, by any chance?”

“What are you talking about?”

Taking out his phone, he taps at the screen a couple of times.

“Some of us were actually glad when we heard the house had a new owner. We thought maybe things could move on.” He glances at me again, and this time I think there's actually a hint of disgust in his eyes. “Let me be candid with you,” he continues. “If you think you can move in here, raise a ruckus about ghosts and try to turn the place into a tourist attraction, you're on a hiding to nothing. People around here don't want a -”

“A tourist attraction?” I ask, interrupting him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm sure there are people who'd pay to spend the night in a so-called haunted house. But digging up all that nonsense from the past isn't going to be good for the area. We'd all much prefer to see Ashbyrn House turned into a nice, respectable family home. Is it just you who's living here, or do you have a family?”

“It's just me,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “But if you think I'm trying to claim there's a ghost, then -”

“Gavin's the head of the local diving club,” he continues, as the diver climbs into his car and starts the engine. “The pond isn't exactly deep here, Mr. Stone, so it didn't take him long to check that there was nobody down there. In fact, the only reason I bothered to call him out was that I wanted to make it clear that I investigated what you told me. But let me be quite clear about one thing. If you call me again, making these fanciful claims, I'll have to seriously consider whether or not you're willfully wasting police time. And if I decide that's the case, there are certain charges that I could bring against you. Am I making myself understood?”

“I saw a woman in the pond,” I tell him, shocked by his complete lack of interest.

“I'm sure you did,” he replies, turning and heading to his car as the diver drives away. “And let me guess. You heard bells too, did you? And strange noises in the room with that bloody painting?”

I open my mouth to reply, but he's already made it abundantly clear that he has no intention of doing his job. In fact, as he taps at his phone a couple more times, I feel as if this particular officer is treating the whole thing as a joke.

“Fine,” I say finally, getting to my feet and heading back toward the front door. “I won't bother you again. Even if hordes of maniacs descend upon the place, I won't dare ask you to do your job.” Stopping in the doorway, I turn back to him. “Just let it be known that I'm installing security measures. Whoever was up here last night harassing me, tell them not to try it again. I won't be an easy touch the next time.”

“I can assure you, nobody from the town is coming up to bother you.”

“I beg to differ,” I reply. “Whatever. Just spread the word. I want to be left alone!”

With that, I head inside and slam the door shut, before stopping for a moment and listening to the silence of the house. Having not slept a wink last night, I feel exhausted and buzzed at the same time. The only possible explanation for the night's events is that some prankster tossed a full-sized dummy into the pond. Quite how I missed the damn thing while I was searching, I don't understand, but perhaps I was panicking a little. And then, when I ran to call the police, evidently the jokers pulled the dummy out and made their escape.

I'm sure they got the whole thing on video.

Finally, I head through to the kitchen, where Bob is sitting by the door with a mournful look on his face, but I don't have time to console him right now. After putting some food in his bowl, I make myself some breakfast and wander through to the study, figuring I should at least try to get some work done. Of course, first I'll have to -

Stopping in the doorway, I'm surprised to see that not only has my desk been moved over to the far wall and set in place, but the lamp has been removed from the box and set in place. In fact, the whole room appears to have been tidied and readied for me. I don't remember doing this last night, but I suppose it's possible that I did a little prep work before falling asleep at the kitchen table. It's odd that I didn't put my laptop in place, but I suppose I should just be grateful that drunk-Owen saw fit to arrange the house a little.

Slumping in the chair, I eat my bread and jam before realizing that I'm far too tired to actually get any work done. If I go and sleep for a few hours, maybe I can come up fighting after lunch and actually manage a few words. Frankly, so far my new life of rural isolation hasn't gone so well, and it might be better to bow to the need to sleep.

“Hey Bob,” I say finally, leaving my crumby plate on the desk as I head out to the hallway. “I'm going to make the bed up. Do you want to take a nap?”

By the time I'm halfway up the stairs, Bob is already right with me.

“Don't worry,” I tell him as I reach the bedroom door. “I just have to -”

Stopping suddenly, I'm surprised to see that not only has the bed been made up, but all my clothes have been taken from the suitcases and hung in the wardrobe. I guess I must have been pretty busy last night after those two glasses of wine.

***

Of course, I dream about Vanessa again. Sometimes I think that the more I force her from my mind while I'm awake, the more she comes back to me when I sleep.

This time, the dream is set at the old beach hotel where we went for one of our first trips together. We're walking along the shoreline, laughing and joking, and I'm struck by the realization that this is the woman I want to marry and be with for the rest of my life. There are no doubts, no uncertainties and no questions. I just know, with all I have in my soul, that Vanessa is the one. Of course, by that point we'd only been together for about six weeks, so I figured it was too early to ask her to marry me. I knew I'd have to wait six months, maybe a year, but deep down I couldn't help making plans.

Life seemed to easy back then. And simple. But then Charlie went and ruined everything for us all.

Suddenly opening my eyes, I find myself back in the bedroom at Ashbyrn House. I'm immediately struck by a sense of disappointment that the dream is over, so I close my eyes and try to get back to the beach. I know it's a long shot, but after a moment I begin to feel myself drifting again, as if maybe I have a shot. Half awake and half asleep, I stay perfectly still, trying to empty my mind. I can hear waves in the distance, and now I remember the sweater she was wearing that day. A moment later, I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I feel the bed shifting slightly beneath my body, almost as if she's climbing on to rest with me.

And then Bob starts barking.

Startled, I open my eyes. I can still feel a hand on my shoulder, but I quickly sit up and see that Bob is snarling at the empty side of the bed. Turning, I look over at the spot where Vanessa should be, but of course there's no sign of her. The sense of a hand on my shoulder has faded, and I turn back to Bob, and for a few more seconds I feel as if I'm torn between two vastly different worlds. One with Vanessa, and one without her. Of course, it's the world without Vanessa that quickly wins out.

“Thanks,” I tell Bob sourly. “You couldn't have let me have a few more minutes?”

He backs to the very edge of the bed, snarling as he looks up at something next to the bed. His hackles are raised yet again, and I watch with a mixture of concern and amusement as he turns. I swear, it's almost as if he's watching someone walk slowly around the bed, and I can't deny that the effect is a little creepy.

“You can stop now,” I tell him. “I'm awake.”

He barks again, watching the open door now.

“Bob?” I continue. “Come on, little guy. Enough's enough. You're a good guard dog, I get it. You've proved your point.”

He lets out another snarl, still watching the door, and then finally he turns and comes over to me, settling next to my legs as if he wants to guard me.

“Okay,” I mutter, stroking his back, “that's -”

Suddenly I hear a creaking sound from out in the corridor, as if one of the other doors is swinging open. I wait, and Bob lets out another low growl.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “You know what, Bob? I'll admit it, that was slightly creepy.”

Glancing at the wall, I see that there are several squashed spiders next to the bed. I'm sure they weren't there earlier, but I guess I must have missed them.

I pause, considering my chances of getting any more sleep, before realizing that the dream of Vanessa is probably well and truly gone now. Besides, it's probably not healthy for me to dwell on the past like that, and when I check my phone I see that I managed to rest for a couple of hours and it's now just a few minutes before midday. If I'm going to have any hope of getting into a normal sleep pattern, I should probably just haul my ass up and push through the rest of the day, and then try to sleep properly tonight.

Heading out to the corridor, I stop for a moment and look along at the spot where the painting of the bride used to hang. Although my initial reaction was to get rid of the damn thing, I'm starting to wonder whether I actually allowed myself to be ruled by superstition. After all, it's just a painting, and perhaps by putting it out in the shed I let a seed of doubt take root in my mind. Maybe I should bring it back into the house and hang it up, just to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm not worried about any of this superstitious nonsense.

So that's what I do.

Of course, Bob barks at me as I manhandle the painting back through the front door, but he's just going to have to learn to live with it. The task of getting the heavy frame all the way up the stairs is not the work of a moment, and it takes several minutes before I give up and decide that maybe I should just let the painting hang in one of the downstairs rooms instead. Despite the slightly creepy image, there's something slightly kitsch and appealing about the style, so I lumber through to the study and get to work.

Finally the painting of the bride is in place, dominating the study, and I take a step back to admire my work.

“There you go,” I mutter. “Pride of place. I hope you're happy now, Katinka Ashbyrn. Whoever you were.”

Chapter Sixteen

Katinka - 1859

The next morning, Charles is waiting in Father's study, which is where I anticipated finding him. With Mother and Pippa having gone for a walk, I feel that I shall not have a better chance to speak to my future husband about important matters. Still, as I reach the door and see him reading, I cannot help but note that he appears very calm and untroubled. And whereas I always thought I would like to see him working at Father's desk, I find instead that the sight sickens me.

I could greatly esteem a man, just from seeing him sit at that desk, but he would have to be a strong and studious man. Not Charles.

“Might I disturb you?” I ask, forcing a smile. “Mother said that you wanted to see me.”

He glances at me, and now I see a hint of fear in his eyes.

“Please sit,” he says cautiously. “I'm sorry, I...”

Making my way across the room, I take a seat opposite him. Something seems to have changed in his demeanor, but I am quite sure he does not know that he and my sister were overheard last night. I have remained quiet and pleasant all morning, preferring to wait for my chance to take revenge. The wedding must go ahead, of course, and really not much has changed. I must simply ensure that Charles does not think me a pushover.

“There's no easy way to say this,” he mutters finally. “I have been thinking, Katinka, and I have decided that the church simply must be torn down before the end of the year. I know you wish us to be married there, and that is acceptable, but thereafter we have no need of the place. It's not as if the church is used by anybody these days, so I shall have some men from Poole come next month and take it apart brick by brick. The money raised from this endeavor shall be reinvested in the upkeep of Ashbyrn House, and then we'll take stock and see what needs doing next.”

I wait for him to finish, but he simply adjusts himself slightly in the seat, as if he feels he has said enough.

“No,” I tell him.

He continues to read his papers for a few more seconds, as if he didn't hear what I just said, and then he glances at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.”

Again, he seems shocked. “What... What do you mean?”

“I mean it's out of the question. You will not knock down the church, nor will its stones be sold to some men from Poole.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“I'm not sure you quite understand,” he says finally. “The decision is mine to take, Katinka, and mine alone. I'm sorry if this upsets you, but I shall be the man of the house and my decision is final.”

“No. It's not.”

“Katinka -”

“You will not touch that church,” I continue, daring to interrupt him. “If you do, I shall kill you.”

I see an instant sliver of fear in his eyes.

“I shall come to you while you sleep one night,” I tell him, “and I shall drive a dagger into your chest, puncturing your heart. Either that, or I shall slit your throat. Whichever seems easiest at the time.”

He furrows his brow, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing.

“You will also refrain from meeting my sister for any more late-night assignations,” I continue. “If she has the misfortune to be with child, you will have her sent away for the duration of her term. If I catch you with her again, I will kill you. Is that understood?”

“Katinka -”

“It's not that I care about your infidelity, of course,” I tell him. “I do not. I care only that we are married, and that I carry your children. Other than that, you may do as you please, as is your right. But Charles, my dear, if you continue to sleep with my sister, then there is potential for great embarrassment all round. And embarrassment is to be avoided at all costs, don't you think? We must appear proper and decent.”

I pause for a moment, maintaining eye contact with him until finally he looks back down at his papers.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I add. “Did I upset you by being so direct?”

He grips the arms of the chair, but evidently he is still too horrified to move.

“And in case you are thinking that you might cancel our wedding,” I continue, “then I should warn you that such a move would be most unwise. If you do such a thing, I shall find you and I shall kill you. Even if you run, I shall follow. It is far, far too late for either of us to back out of this engagement now, and I will not have my family's name dragged through the mud. I also know, Charles, that your claims of money and business acumen are mere fantasies, but that is something we can deal with later. For now, simply be aware that our wedding is going ahead next week. We shall be married now, whether you like it or not.”

He looks over at the door.

“Look at me , you imbecile!” I tell him. “Not over there.”

He turns back to me, and I think he might actually be shaking with fear. Behind him, a spider is crawling up the wall.

“Do you doubt my word?” I continue, tilting my head slightly to one side and allowing myself a faint smile. “I am not of an age that makes it easy to find a husband, and I most certainly do not have the luxury of ending our engagement and going off to seek out someone better. For better or for worse, Charles, we have agreed to marry, and marry we shall. I shall give birth to your children, and everybody beyond the walls of this house will esteem us as a happy, normal family. Meanwhile, my sister Pippa must be sent to live far away, and her visits shall be very few and far between.”

“Katinka...”

“Is that clear, Charles?”

He hesitates for a moment, as if he's genuinely lost for words.

“I don't want to kill you,” I tell him. “I want to marry you. But if you go against my wishes, I have nothing to lose. I have made my decision, and you would do well to recognize the new constraints that I have placed upon you. If you do not, my word is my bond. I shall kill you. Is that clear?”

Realizing that he seems frozen, as if he cannot believe what I have told him, I get to my feet. It would be as well, perhaps, to let him remain here so that he might digest my promise, so I turn and head toward the door. Somehow, I feel strangely calm, as if I have finally begun to take control of my own life. Charles still has great potential, and I am sure he will look like a fine husband once we are married. I just have to deal with a few of his rough edges first.

“And now,” I add, glancing back at him, “you must excuse me. I must deal with my sister, for it is her betrayal that hurts me the most.”

Chapter Seventeen

Owen - Today

I don't know precisely what has changed, but suddenly I feel as if I'm in the form of my life. I spend the rest of the day in my new study, working on some old papers that I'd left semi-abandoned, and I find myself typing furiously. I'd hoped that moving away from London would give me a kick up the bracket, and I'm finally starting to see the fruits of my new environment.

In fact, I spend the entire afternoon working, without taking so much as a break to make a cup of tea. This old mahogany desk just seems like a perfect fit, to the extent that I can't even drag myself away for a few seconds. By the time evening arrives and the light gets low, I'm still not tired at all, so I simply plug my lamp in and switch it on, and then I keep working for several more hours.

All the while, Bob is curled next to my feet, napping and occasionally letting out a sigh.

Somehow I manage to lose myself in my work, in a way that hasn't happened since I was a much younger man. When I was in my early twenties, I could burn the candle at both ends and still feel strong when morning came, but in recent years I've been slowing down. Now, however, I feel as if the words are flowing out at an unprecedented rate, and I don't even consider stopping. Finally Bob paws at my leg, but I don't have time to stop right now and feed him, or to let him out. He'll just have to cross his legs for a few more hours.

And so the work continues to flow.

This is exactly what I wanted. This is why I left London, and why I looked for a remote house where I'd be able to focus on what's important. With no people around to distract me, I'm able to just type and type and type, ignoring the clock and just powering through this latest novel until finally I feel a faint flicker of pain in my left hand, which causes me to sit back for a moment and let out a gasp. My fingers are starting to feel a little tight, and when I look at my phone I'm shocked to see that it's almost 3am.

I've been writing for twelve hours. When I check the word-count, I see that I've managed almost sixty thousand, which I didn't think was even possible in half a day. I'm surprised my fingertips aren't smoking.

Looking down at the laptop, I'm shocked to notice that I seem to have worn the E and I keys down until they're just black squares.

I should get up.

I know I should.

It's not healthy to sit here like this for hour after hour. I want to start typing again, but I know it'd be wise to at least stand and walk around for a few minutes.

As soon as I start to rise from the chair, however, I feel a series of stiff aches rippling through my body. Apart from typing, I don't think I moved a muscle during the entire time I was at the desk, and now I'm paying for that lack of mobility. Limping slightly, I hobble through to the corridor and then into the kitchen, where I find Bob waiting patiently at the back door. After letting him out to do his business, I put some food in his bowl and then I realize I should probably get something to eat. Turning, I head over to the kitchen table, only to stop as soon as I see a single glass of whiskey waiting at the far end.

I didn't pour that whiskey.

The bottle is on the sideboard, where I left it, but somehow a glass has been filled.

I turn and look around, but the kitchen is otherwise empty and untouched. It's hard to believe that I was so consumed by my work that I could have missed someone entering the house, and harder still to think that an intruder would break in and do nothing more than pour me a drink. Then again, I guess I was in such a daze, maybe I got up for a moment and just don't remember. Plus, I really, really could use a whiskey right now, so I put my fears aside and take a sip, and then I take the glass over to the back door, where I stop for a moment to look out and watch Bob sniffing some bushes.

Vanessa would love it here.

Vanessa would turn this house into a project.

Vanessa always -

Suddenly Bob turns to me and starts barking furiously. I wait, convinced that there must be some other explanation, and then I wander over to him. As I get closer, it becomes clear that he's not actually barking at me , but that instead he's barking at the empty doorway. Sitting next to him, I stroke his flank, while hoping that he'll calm down at some point.

“Come on, buddy,” I say finally. “This has to stop. You've been freaking out ever since we got here. Isn't your throat getting sore by now?”

He lets out an anguished whimper and then settles down on the grass, while still watching the doorway with fearful eyes.

“It's just a house,” I tell him. “Got it? It's big, I'll give you that, and it's probably much bigger than I need, but at least it's far from the madding crowd. And that's what I need right now. Back in London, things...”

I pause for a moment, thinking back to the arguments with Vanessa and the long nights spent all alone. And most of all, I think back to that awful night at the hospital, waiting for news...

And the cemetery.

I look down at my whiskey for a moment, swirling it in the glass, and then I down the rest in one gulp.

“Yeah, this is perfect,” I continue, stroking Bob's neck even though he still seems to be on edge. “I got it, buddy. I got exactly what I wanted. And I'll be perfectly happy if I never have to deal with another human being again.”

***

“No, Charlie,” I mutter the following morning, with my phone set to speaker-mode as I cook some eggs. “Honestly, I'm fine. I don't know why you keep fussing about me.”

“Well for one thing,” he replies, “you sound stressed.”

“Only because you won't stop calling me.”

“For another, you've made a big change in your life and I'm still worried about your reasons.”

“I'm not a people person.”

“And for another, you look like crap.”

I open my mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment. A fraction of a second later, I hear a tapping sound at the window, and I turn to see Charlie grinning and waving at me from outside.

***

“What part of ' I want to be left alone' did you not understand?” I ask, dishing up two plates of egg and bacon instead of the one I'd been planning. “Were you under the mistaken impression that this move was a cry for help?”

“You sounded weird on the phone the other night.”

“So? Can't I sound weird if that's what I want?”

“London -”

“I don't need to know about London.” I carry the plates over and set them on the table. “As far as I'm concerned, London no longer exists. I haven't even read a newspaper since I got to Cornwall.”

“But -”

“And my London life is in the past,” I add, interrupting him before he can bring up the name of a certain woman. “Please, Charlie, just respect my decision. I didn't make this move lightly, and I don't need you bugging me about it now.”

“So that's why you ended up living in a haunted house, eh?”

I take a seat opposite him. Already, I can feel myself itching to get back to the desk and start writing again, but I guess I have to play the perfect host.

“I looked it up, you know,” he continues, with a faint, mischievous smile. “This house has a history, my friend. Things have happened here in the past. Dark, mysterious things, and there are people who reckon those things are still echoing today.”

“Give me a break,” I mutter as I start eating.

“You know about what happened at Ashbyrn House, I assume?” he asks.

“I can't say that I do.”

“Seriously? You don't know the story about Katinka Ashbyrn and how she -”

“Charlie -”

“Or what happened to her mother? Or her sister? Or -”

“I've very deliberately avoided all of that,” I say firmly.

“Because you're scared?”

“Because it's irrelevant. It's in the past. The only reason to get into all that superstitious nonsense is if I want some kind of vicarious thrill. Which I don't. I'm sorry if something bad took place here, I'm sorry if some people suffered back in the long and distant past, but there's nothing I can do about that now.”

I continue to eat for a moment, before realizing that I'm being watched.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just...” He sighs. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Owen Stone?”

“Charlie, I'm fine!”

“I can't believe you're okay with living here, when you don't know the history of the house! There's a reason you got Ashbyrn House at a knock-down price, Owen. There's a reason the place wasn't exactly attracting a gaggle of prospective purchasers.” He leans toward me. “There's bad ju-ju here, Owen. Bad, bad ju-ju. Something awful happened here a long time ago, and there's some trace of it still in the air. Come on, man... Seriously, are you telling me that you haven't noticed even one odd things since you moved in?”

I pause for a moment, thinking back to the strange noises and the face in the pond.

“Nothing,” I say finally.

He stares at me. “Liar.”

“There's been nothing, Charlie.”

“No bumps in the night?”

I shake my head. The last thing I want is to set him off with more of his crazy theories.

“No shadows moving in the corners of the room?”

“I'm sorry to disappoint.”

“No weirdness in the pond?”

I pause. Does he know something?

“Of course not,” I mutter, looking back down at my plate. “Why do you ask?”

I wait for him to continue. When he says nothing, I focus on my food for a moment before glancing up and seeing that he's watching me.

“So it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that you think you know something creepy about the history of the house,” I say cautiously. “I want to make it plainly clear that I have no interest in hearing about it. Do you understand?”

“Because you're scared?”

“Because -”

Before I can finish, there's a faint bumping sound out in the corridor. Next to me, Bob lifts his head and lets out a slow, warning growl.

“That was nothing,” I tell Charlie.

He smiles. “Your dog doesn't seem to agree.”

“My dog's paranoid.”

“Dogs have other senses, Owen. They can pick up things that we can't.”

“I wrote damn near sixty thousand words yesterday,” I reply. “Sixty thousand . That's more than a week's worth. In one day.”

“Impressive.”

“And they're good words, too,” I continue. “I read some of it back earlier, and it's the best stuff I've written in years. I came here to get away from the madness of London and to focus on my writing, and guess what? It's working. I was right, I just needed to be on my own. So if you can't appreciate that, and if you came here with some misguided idea about rescuing me, then please... You might as well leave right now, because that's not going to happen.”

Bob lets out another low growl.

“And you can shut it,” I tell him. “There's no -”

Suddenly Bob gets to his feet and steps forward, clearly interested in something on the floor. I look down, assuming that he's just being crazy, but after a moment I spot a spider scurrying past. The house isn't exactly short of the damn things, but this particular spider seems to have really caught Bob's attention.

“There we go,” I mutter, as Bob follows the spider across the room without quite daring to attack. “That's all that's upsetting him. A spider.”

Finishing my breakfast, I get to my feet and take my plate over to the sink. Deep down, I hope Charlie does take the hint and leave. I want another day like yesterday. Work and more work.

“Just think,” he says as I start rinsing the plate clean. “In a parallel universe, you're a happily married man right now, living in a Notting Hill townhouse with your lovely -”

“Don't say her name!” I snap, turning to him.

“You haven't called her, have you?”

“Why would I?”

“You said you would. You promised me that you'd call her before you left London.”

“I lied.”

“I know, but I still hoped you might change your mind.”

I turn back to the sink and start drying the plate.

“So why don't you show me around?” Charlie asks suddenly, and I hear chair-legs scraping against the floorboards as he gets to his feet. “This is a big-ass house, to be sure. Are you not gonna offer me the grand tour? And after that, well, I came all the way from London to feckin' Cornwall, so I'm damn well staying the night and you'd damn well better have some booze in.”

I desperately want to tell him to go to hell, but the last thing I need right now is to feed into his deluded belief that I'm somehow cracking up.

“Fine,” I mutter, turning to him, “but tomorrow I have to get back to work.”

“Got another sixty thousand words planned, have you?”

“Something like that.”

He pauses, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion, before turning and suddenly making his way through to the study.

“Start by explaining this feckin' thing!” he calls back to me.

Sighing, I glance at Bob and see that he's still stalking the spider. With another sigh, I turn and follow Charlie to the next room, where I find him staring at the painting of the bride.

“It was here when I arrived,” I tell him. “It's nothing.”

“No kidding,” he replies. “It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen in my life. It's so old-fashioned and cracked. The paint's peeling, man. This belongs on a bonfire or a skip, not on your wall.”

Stepping closer, I look at the painting, and for a moment I'm struck by the beauty of the bride's elegant white dress. Sure, the painting itself is not particularly accomplished, and the style is most definitely dated, but the actual image itself is starting to appeal to me. The bride's hands are the only visible part of her flesh, as they clutch as small bunch of flowers. Her face, meanwhile, remains hidden beneath a white veil, although there are faint hints of a shape and it's quite clear that she's staring out of the painting. In fact, in some strange way, I almost feel as if she's staring straight at me .

“It's shite,” Charlie says suddenly.

“It's beautiful,” I counter.

“Are you kidding? If the Antiques Roadshow people ever show up in this neck of the woods, you should take it down and get it appraised. Just for shits and giggles, you know? But Christ, man, can you at least take it away while I'm staying the night? It gives me the creeps.”

“It's not going anywhere,” I reply, unable to quite take my eyes off the canvas. “If you don't like it, you can always leave.”

“You know who she is, right?”

“I believe her name was Katinka Ashbyrn.”

“Sure, but you know the story behind her, don't you?”

Barely even listening to him, I continue to stare at the painting. The more I look at the veil, the more I feel that perhaps I can see though a little better to the face beneath. And I'm certain, quite certain, that she's staring at me.

“You know,” Charlie says after a moment, “Katinka Ashbyrn has been dead for a long, long time. But that doesn't mean she's not -”

“I don't need to hear this,” I tell him.

“But she -”

“The painting stays,” I add, feeling a flash of anger at the thought that he'd even suggest otherwise. Turning to him, I can see that he's amused by my insistence. “Maybe in London this thing would be laughed at and consigned to the trash,” I continue, “because it's not cool or it doesn't do anything for the hipsters, but this is my house and I happen to like this painting. It stays, and if you have a problem with that, then you know where to find the door.”

He stares at me for a moment, as if he can't quite believe that I actually give a damn about something.

“Alrighty,” he says finally, with a shrug. “Point made. Now how about we get some supplies in? 'Cause as far as I can see, so far you've been living off the crap you lugged all the way from London.”

Chapter Eighteen

Katinka - 1859

“You're acting awfully queer today,” Pippa says as we make our way through the forest beyond the church. “Katinka, is something wrong? You're not having second thoughts, are you? Not you , of all people?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, sticking to the path while Pippa hops from stone to stone. I reach down and pick some flowers, gathering them in a little bouquet. I must practice building a nice bouquet for my wedding day.

“Just that your whole life has been building up to this week,” she continues with a grin. “I know how desperately you've always wanted to be a proud and respectable wife. I must admit, I always thought you'd choose a husband who seemed a little more like Father, but I suppose Charles must simply have caught your attention in some other way. Doubts are natural, my dear sister. You'll feel much better once the ring is on your finger.”

“I'm sure,” I whisper, as a smile creeps across my face. I'm not entirely sure why I'm smiling, but some deep, inner impulse seems highly amused by Pippa's words. She's certainly a good liar.

“Do you love him?” she asks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you love Charles?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, Katinka... How can you contemplate marrying a man you do not love?”

“You're young,” I mutter. “You're still a child, almost. You wouldn't understand.”

“I understand that people should marry for love,” she replies, “instead of convenience.”

“Well, that is where you're wrong.”

“Is it, dear sister?”

I can't help sighing. “Charles will make a fine husband,” I point out. “He will fulfill his responsibilities admirably.”

“But you don't love him, do you?”

“Why should I?” I snap. “The man is odious and -”

I catch myself just in time. Or rather, perhaps, a little too late. Turning to Pippa, I see that she's smiling at me.

“I'm sure your wedding night will be fun,” she continues, jumping onto another rock. “You'll be a married woman, Katinka. I can't even -”

Suddenly she slips on a wet patch, crashing down and letting out a brief cry of pain as she lands on her knees. Falling to one side, she slams into the grass, and I can already see a bloody patch on her knee. Whereas usually I'd rush to her aid, however, this time I hold back, preferring to watch as she sits up and starts examining the damage.

“That really hurts!” she gasps. “Oh Katinka, look! It's not only my knee that's taken the brunt! My dress is ruined, too!”

“So it appears,” I mutter.

“I've never felt so much pain in my life!” she complains, slowly getting to her feet and then limping over to join me on the path. “I don't think anything's broken, but look at how much skin I've lost!”

I stare at her knee and watch as a trickle of blood runs down toward her feet.

“Well don't just stand there!” she continues. “Katinka, honestly, what's wrong with you? You shall have to support me on the way back to the house, and then hopefully Mother has something she can use to clean the wound. The last thing I want is to die right before your wedding!”

She waits, but I simply stare at her damaged knee.

“Katinka?” she says after a moment. “Are you going to help me or not?”

She looks so pathetic, but I can't help thinking back to my view of her last night. That's when she was on her back, with her legs in the air, enjoying the affections of my husband-to-be. I'm not a naive woman, and I know that men often take mistresses once they're married, but I would like to think that a decent man would at least try to hide his actions. I would also like to think that my own sister might have a little more decorum, and that the pair of them would have the sense to avoid being caught. The real insult here is that they seemed not to care that I might stumble upon their sordid little assignation.

“Katinka? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I blink. “Like what?”

“You were staring at me,” she continues, looking and sounding rather unnerved as blood continues to dribble from her knee. “I don't like it. Stop!”

“Aren't you being a panicky little custard?” I ask, stepping closer. For the first time in my life, I feel as if I have power, and I like the fact that my sister seems scared. In fact, as I take another step closer, I can see her discomfort growing. Her knee might only be grazed and little bloodied, but the injury does nudge her an inch or two closer to death. Just an inch or two.

“Katinka, stop it!” she says, trying to sound firm but succeeding only in appearing more nervous. “Katinka, you're being rotten! Just because it's your wedding day soon, you don't have the right to act in such a horrid way! Now will you please help me into the house, so that Mother can tend to my wound?”

I look down at her bloodied knee for a moment.

“It's just a scratch,” I whisper.

“I think I can see the bone!”

“Nonsense.”

“Katinka, I've lost a lot of blood!”

“You have a lot more.”

That, at least, is true. A fair deal of blood has run down onto the rocks, where it glistens in the morning sunlight. The sight is quite beautiful, and I can't seem to look away.

“Oh, you are awful!” Pippa hisses, as she starts hauling herself up. “I won't forget this, you know! Let's see how you like it when I refuse to help you some time! Do you think that just because you're married, you won't ever scrape your knee or get into a jam?”

She limps toward me and then stops, staring into my eyes as if she's searching for something. Compassion, perhaps? Or love? Mere affection? Whatever it is, she won't find it. Not now.

“You think you're so wonderful, don't you?” she sneers. “Charles might have chosen you to marry when he first came here, but that's not because of any quality you possess. We all know you appeal to him only because of the property that he'll acquire once the pair of you are married. Why, if our ages were reversed and I stood to inherit Ashbyrn House upon my wedding day, and pass it to my husband, well...”

A faint, cruel smile crosses her lips.

“I think we both know,” she continues, “whose hand Charles would have requested in marriage, don't we? Certainly not that of a frigid maid who only cares about being seen to do the right thing.”

We stand in silence for a moment. I should be angry, but I feel absolutely, unflappably calm. Calmer, perhaps, than ever before in my life. And all around us, the forest seems to have fallen absolutely silent.

“Well?” Pippa continues. “What do you have to say about all that, dear sister?”

“Just this,” I reply. “That I love you very much.”

***

She lets out a gurgled groan as her wet hands reach up to push me away, but no force in the world could stop me now. After adjusting my grip on her throat, I slam Pippa's head yet again against the rock, cracking another section of her skull. This time, when she looks up at me, I see that one of her pupils is much larger than the other, and now all that comes from her throat is a slow, guttural gasp.

There is blood all over the black stone.

“I know what you did!” I hiss, leaning closer to Pippa's face as blood runs from her lips. She's conscious, but barely so. “You disgusting little whore! I caught you last night!”

She tries to whisper something, and a moment later she places a trembling hand on my arm, as if to beg for mercy one final time.

“Harlot!” I snap. “I love you, dear sister. Is that what you wanted to hear? And where did love get us?”

With that, I crush her head against the rock one more time, this time shattering one entire side of her skull. Her arms and legs twitch for a moment before falling still. Much like all those spiders I killed back in the house.

***

I sit with her for a while, after she is dead. The forest is so tranquil and calm at this time of year, and now I can hear birds – perhaps even squirrels – ruffling the leaves of the trees. The forest has started to breathe again. Sunlight streams down, and the church can be seen in the distance, standing tall and proud.

Everything is perfect.

I hope the weather is this good on my wedding day.

Chapter Nineteen

Owen - Today

The town of Turthfeddow is no more appealing by day than it was by night. I was reluctant to let Charlie drag me away from the house this afternoon, and it's quite clear that I made a mistake by coming here. The streets are dull and gray, with lower-end chain stores offering nothing but crap, and the entire place seems dead and inconsequential. As we make our way along the high street, I can't help thinking that the rules of natural selection should have scrubbed this little dump off the map a long time ago.

“They're looking at you, you know,” Charlie whispers to me.

I glance across the street and see that he's right. A couple of gossiping old women are standing in a doorway, watching me. They look away after a moment's eye contact.

“I guess you're the new lord of the manor,” Charlie continues, as we step around a mother who's tending to her pram-ridden crying daughter. “Ashbyrn House's the biggest place for miles and miles in any direction, and it had been empty for years before you showed up. I'm gonna bet that it really got their tongues wagging when they heard someone was gonna be moving in.”

“If that's all they've got to talk about in their miserable lives,” I mutter under my breath, “then I pity them.”

“Still planning to get all your groceries delivered from an online store?”

“You think I should make a weekly trip into this soul-sapping pit of misery?”

“Careful!”

He grabs my arm to hold me back. Momentarily startled, it takes a few seconds before I see that I was about to step in a steaming dog turd that somebody left on the pavement. Sighing, I step around the pleasant gift and then make my way to the street corner.

“How about that place?” Charlie asks.

Looking over at the pub, I realize it's the same place I tried to get a taxi when I arrived the other night. The last thing I want is to go back inside.

“I heard about this pub,” Charlie continues. “You see the post that the sign hangs from? Back in the day, that was a hanging post. It was where the locals used to hang criminals.”

“Charming,” I mutter, watching as the pub's sign creaks high above us in the breeze.

“Come on, old man,” he adds, patting my back before hurrying across the road. “First round's on you!”

He quickly hurries across the road, and I doubt very much that he'll kindly to any attempt to change his mind. I guess I just have to suffer a beer in this infernal place, and then hopefully I can drag Charlie back to the house. The absolute last thing I want right now is another drinking session. Those days are long, long in the past.

I just want to be left alone.

***

“The thing about Ashbyrn House,” the bartender continues, apparently under the impression that we want his opinion as he pours us two pints, “is that everyone round here had kinda given up on it. We figured no-one'd ever want to buy the place, not after everything that happened there.”

“Hear that?” Charlie asks, nudging my arm. “Your house is infamous.”

I want to tell them all to shut up, but instead I bite my tongue. I'm feeling more misanthropic by the second, and although I don't want to be social, I'd rather not become some kind of parody. I'm sure I can handle company for a few minutes. Thirty, at most.

“There's a lot of codswallop talked about that kinda thing,” the bartender continues as he carefully brings two overflowing pints over to us. “Are you waiting for someone? Anyway, to be honest, I think it's only really the bells that freak people out. The rest of it can be chalked up to over-excitement, but the bells... Well, I've heard them myself from time to time, and I'm not sure I like them much.”

“But they must come from somewhere,” Charlie points out. “Even if it's just a recording, they can't be ringing out of thin air.”

“You can hear them from the town sometimes,” the man adds. “At night, in the main. People've mostly learned to just ignore them, but you can't entirely put something like that out of your mind, can you? I mean, there used to be a church up there at Ashbyrn House, and there used to be a bell in the tower. But now it's gone, and I suppose that gets people thinking. What with folk having reckoned they saw her up there, too.”

“Saw who?” Charlie asks.

“Keep the change,” I mutter, setting some cash on the bar before taking the pints over to a table in the corner.

By the time I've sat down, Charlie has started wandering over to join me, although I can tell that he'd prefer to keep talking to the bartender. I'm sure that if Charlie had his way, we'd spend the entire day sitting in this pub, drinking several pints and listening to yarn after yarn. I'm sure locals would wander in, and we'd hear their stories too, and by the end of the day we'd be full to the brim with all sorts of hackneyed ghost stories about spectral figures and see-through brides. I doubt the stories about Ashbyrn House are very original. After all, aren't all ghost stories basically the same?

“So why didn't you tell me you called the police the other day?” Charlie asks as he sits down.

I can't help sighing.

“What happened, man?” he continues. “The cops? Seriously? Was there an intruder, something like that?”

I glance at the bartender and see that he's watching me with concern in his eyes. I'm sure everybody in town knows about the diver who had to check my pond. After a moment, I turn away from him and look at Charlie.

“Nothing happened,” I mutter.

“You called the police to your house for nothing?”

“It was late at night, and some local children were playing a prank on me. That's all.”

“And you panicked and called the cops?”

“I thought somebody was -”

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

“I briefly thought that somebody had fallen into the pond and was drowning,” I continue. “I just thought I saw something, but it was the middle of the night and I was using a flashlight, and clearly I was wrong. And this is precisely why I don't want to hear about the history of Ashbyrn House. The human mind is capable of conjuring up ridiculous visions, and I know I'm not immune from that. The more I hear about anything that occurred at Ashbyrn House, the more likely I am to...”

My voice trails off. Hearing a creaking sound, I look out the window and see the pub's sign moving in the breeze. For the first time, I notice that the pub is named The Hanging Man , which seems a little morbid.

“Fair enough,” Charlie replies. “That actually makes a fair lick of sense. You're protecting yourself, but...”

Now it's his turn to fall silent.

Hearing the door swing open, I turn and see that a couple more of the local idiots have arrived. They look toward me, and it's clear that my presence has registered somewhere in their minds, but they quickly make their way to the bar and start speaking to the bartender in hushed tones. I hold my breath, hoping that I might be able to overhear.

“What if you can't protect yourself?” Charlie asks.

I turn back to him.

“I know you don't want to hear the history of that house,” he continues, “but I have heard the history, okay? And without getting too specific, you need to be careful in case she...” He pauses. “There's a woman. Someone who used to live there, a long time ago. As a matter of fact, her name was Katinka Ashbyrn and she's the woman in the painting, and it's no coincidence that the painting shows her in a wedding gown. Owen, she died on the day she was supposed to get married. The whole story was a tragedy, but apparently Katinka Ashbyrn was not a well woman when she was alive, not in the head, and I doubt death has made her any kinder. They say her whole life was building up to this triumphant wedding, and then it was snatched away from her at the very last moment.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I don't need to hear this, but somehow the words catch in my throat.

“Just promise me one thing,” he adds. “If you see anything at the house, anything that seems like it might be connected to this woman... You have to get out of there. Maybe it's all bullshit, maybe she died and that was the end of her, but if you think you see her, wearing her bridal gown and her veil... Get out of there before she has a chance to lift the veil. That's what the legend says. Seeing her with her veil on is one thing. But if you see her without the veil, if you see her actual face...”

Again, his voice trails off.

“I shall take that into account,” I reply finally, feeling as if I let him go on a little too much. Taking a long sip of beer, I end up downing a third of the pint before setting it back on the table.

Over by the bar, the locals are still engaged in their hushed, urgent conversation. After a moment, I realize I can occasionally hear my name being mentioned, as well as the name of my home. I know I should ignore these fools, but I can feel a slow sense of anger simmering in my chest, and finally I can't help myself.

“Are you talking about me?” I call out to them. “Is something on your pitiful minds?”

They instantly fall silent.

“Cowards,” I mutter under my breath, taking another sip of beer.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Charlie replies, suddenly seeming a little uncomfortable.

“Absolutely not,” I tell him. “We're finishing our drinks.”

“But a minute ago, you barely even wanted to come to the -”

“We're finishing our drinks!” I say firmly. “We're here now, and I won't be chased out by a bunch of slack-jawed yokels.”

“Careful!” he hisses. “They'll hear you!”

“I don't care.” I down the rest of my pint, and for a moment I struggle to keep my temper under control. Finally I take Charlie's untouched drink and take a sip.

“You never used to be like this,” Charlie continues, keeping his voice down. “You never had this anger before it all went wrong with Vanessa. You've changed, man. You've started to crunch up into yourself, and the worst thing is, you're not done yet. I'm scared to think of how you'll end up if you're left to rattle about in that house for the rest of your life. Even if there's no ghost, you're gonna lose your -”

“We're done here!” I hiss, getting to my feet so suddenly that I knock the table, sending it tilting over. My empty glass, and Charlie's barely-touched beer, both crash to the ground.

Ignoring the shocked expressions of the idiots at the bar, I storm to the door and out into the afternoon air, and then for a moment I feel a rush of dizziness spinning through my thoughts. Barely able to see properly, other than a wall of gray haze, I step back and reach out to steady myself against the pub's door. Just as I worry that I might be about to collapse, the dizziness begins to pass and I'm able to see properly again.

Sure enough, several locals are watching me with expressions of concern.

“Owen?” Charlie says as he comes out after me. “Are you alright there, man?”

“Of course I'm alright,” I mutter, buttoning my coat as I turn and head toward the Tesco store at the end of the street. “Why the hell wouldn't I be? I just -”

The second I step off the curb, I hear screeching tires. I turn just in time to see a car skidding toward me, although it comes to a halt just as the fender bumps against my knees. I open my mouth to yell at the idiot, before realizing that perhaps I didn't quite look where I was going. Turning, I see that I've now drawn the attention of a whole gaggle of fools, and I shout at them to leave me alone before hurrying across the street. I have to do my shopping and then get back to the house. And then I'm never, ever coming to this infernal little town again.

Behind me, the pub's sign is still creaking in the breeze.

Chapter Twenty

Katinka - 1859

“Where is Pippa?” Mother asks, looking past the dining table as if she expects my sister to suddenly burst into the room at any moment. “I must say, that girl is becoming harder and harder to pin down by the minute!”

“I believe she is out in the forest,” I reply, hoping to calm her curiosity. “Probably picking mushrooms. You know what she's like.”

I glance at Charles, who seems to be studiously avoiding eye contact with either of us. Instead, he's using his fork to fiddle with the meal on his plate. At times like this, I feel that it is going to take quite a deal of work to mold him into the kind of husband I require. Right now, he is so very far from Father's standard, and I'm almost starting to despair. In fact, I am beginning to wonder whether he has as much potential in that regard as I'd initially believed.

“It's getting dark,” Mother continues, turning to look out the window. “Shouldn't she have come inside by now? She never stays out once it starts getting cold.”

“Oh, wait!” I say, causing her to turn to me. “I completely forgot! Pippa retired to bed an hour or two ago. She claimed to be suffering from a tremendous headache.”

“She did?”

I force a smile. “She said she didn't sleep well last night. Something about exhausting herself. You know what she's like. She can be a petty, trifling thing sometimes.”

Glancing at Charles, I see that he still hasn't looked up from his plate. I imagine that perhaps he feels a little guilty. Either that, or he finally feels a sense of shame. None of these things are qualities that I particularly value in a man, but it is too late to back out of the wedding now. I shall improve him over time.

“Your father wouldn't have tolerated this,” Mother mutters under her breath. “He'd have gone up and dragged your sister down.”

“Father wouldn't have tolerated a lot of things,” I point out. “Father was a good man, and he had values.” I look over at Charles again, and my heart sinks. “It is to be hoped that Ashbyrn House will soon be run by a good man again,” I add, “even though...”

As the words leave my lips, I can't help feeling that Charles is a hopeless case. Still, I have selected him as my husband, and I must simply force him to become the man I need. He has no choice.

After a moment, I look out the window and see that Mother was right. Darkness has begun to fall, and I'm sure the forest must be very cold now. Anybody still out there would be freezing by now.

***

A short while later, once I'm up in my room and I'm waiting for the others to retire, I stand in front of the mirror and admire myself in my wedding dress.

“You look beautiful,” I whisper, feeling a genuine rush of pride as I see how the dress flatters my form. Turning, I admire the view from the sides, and I can't help thinking how much I shall be envied on my wedding day. I know one should be humble about these things, but I know that Father would be so proud of me right now.

A moment later, I hear footsteps outside my door. Mother and Charles are retiring to their rooms, which means it's time for me to slip out of my dress and take care of some business in the garden.

Chapter Twenty-One

Owen - Today

“I remember that night,” Charlie says with a laugh as we sit on the lawn, safely back at Ashbyrn House. “Christ, I got so drunk, I blacked out completely. I still don't remember how I ended up going home with that Laura girl, but she was... Well, let's just say she was fine in every respect. I still think about her curves, even today. Of course, that was in the days when we were still students, and I never got hangovers. I used to mix my drinks like a feckin' mad scientist.”

He takes another swig of whiskey, before chuckling to himself.

“And now look at us,” he continues, glancing up at the starry night sky. “More than a decade later, look how far we've come. I mean, look at you ! You're living in a bloody stately home, for Christ's sake!”

“It's not quite that big,” I reply, before turning to look at the house. I have to admit, Ashbyrn House is perhaps a little larger than I need, but I expect I'll fill the place out eventually.

“You, me and Vanessa,” Charlie adds. “Sorry, I know you probably don't want me to mention her, but... We were a real team back in our student days, weren't we? It's a miracle we got any studying done at all, what with the copious drinking and partying. But it all worked out in the end. You ended up as a writer and publisher, which is exactly what you wanted. Vanessa ended up working in law, which was what she wanted. And I...”

He pauses for a moment, staring into his whiskey.

“Well, we all know what happened to me,” he continues, with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Still, two out of three ain't bad, is it? And maybe I helped you two along.”

I open my mouth to reply, but for a moment I can't help thinking back to those days. There was a time, when I was with Vanessa and we were planning our wedding, planning a family, that I thought I had life entirely figured out. I remember wondering why other people had so much trouble, why they screwed up so often, because from my point of view everything about life was just so easy. I'd found the girl of my dreams, she'd fallen in love with me, and everything seemed absolutely perfect.

Look at me now.

“Funny how things work out,” Charlie whispers, as if he's read my mind. He's still staring into his drink. “Life is really about consequences, isn't it? You do something, and it kind of reduces your options a little, and then the same thing happens over and over until you're trapped. Money doesn't buy you happiness, but it can buy you freedom from the consequences of your choices. For a while, at least. But there are some consequences you can't escape, like...”

Again, he falls silent, before grinning and holding his glass up.

“Cheers!” he laughs. “To escaping the consequences of one's actions for as long as humanly possible!”

Although I don't feel much like doing so, I clink my glass against his and then take a sip of whiskey. Then, not really knowing what else to do, I get to my feet. The last thing I need is to wallow any further in thoughts of Vanessa, but fortunately I feel much calmer now that I'm back at the house. I had a mini-meltdown in town earlier, but Ashbyrn House itself seems to exert a soothing influence on my mind. I honestly feel as if I shall be fine, so long as I stay here for the rest of my life.

“It's dark out here,” Charlie points out. “I've had enough of the dark lately. Why don't we go inside?”

Ignoring him, I step out across the lawn, stumbling toward the pond with my whiskey glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. I know I'm drunk, at least a little tipsy, but I don't really care. The night air is cold and the grass crunches slightly beneath my feet, and I can see my own breath. Right now, I want to look down into the goddamn pond and see if that strange face appears again. I know it won't, I know it can't , but I have to check. Perhaps I'll never stop checking.

“What are you doing, man?” Charlie calls out to me. “I thought we were going back in?”

“Wait a minute!” I yell, stopping at the edge of the pond and looking at the calm, dark water as it ripples in the night's breeze.

“Owen?” Charlie shouts. “What in Christ's name are you doing?”

“Wait!” I hiss, annoyed by his constant interruptions. Still staring at the water, I see patches of moonlight glinting on the surface, but the patterns resolutely refuse to form together and present a face. Besides, I'm certain that the face I saw the other night was actually beneath the surface, rather than a trick of the light.

“Were you real?” I whisper, aware that I'm a little drunk. “Did I imagine you, or were you really down there?”

“Owen!” Charlie yells. “It's cold out here!”

“Wait!” I shout, feeling almost mesmerized by the sight of the water. With each passing second, I'm more and more certain that the supposed face the other night was just a momentary blip. Whatever caused it to appear, I don't need to worry.

The pond is calm now.

There's nothing in the dark.

“You're right,” I say finally, turning to look back toward Charlie. “It's cold out here. Let's go back into the -”

I stop as soon as I see the figure in the window.

Charlie is still sitting on the lawn, nursing his whiskey. Behind him, there's a woman standing in the unlit study, staring out at us from the darkness. She's wearing a wedding dress, and in her hands she's holding a bunch of yellow and blue flowers, exactly like the bouquet in the painting. Her face is covered by a white veil, with just a hint of shadow where her eyes and mouth should be. And I swear to God, she is as clear and distinct as anything I've ever seen in my life.

She's real.

“At least you can see the stars out here,” Charlie mutters obliviously, looking up toward the night sky. “I can't remember the last time I saw stars in London. After a while, you kinda forget they're there, don't you?”

My heart is pounding as I stare at the bride. I know I should call out to Charlie, that I should warn him, but the words stick in my dry mouth and I feel as if I can't possibly break the bride's gaze. She's clearly not looking at Charlie; instead, her veiled face is watching me with calm resolution, and she seems not to mind being seen. It's almost as if, after watching me for a few days, she has finally decided to make her presence clearer.

“Charlie,” I manage to whisper finally, even though my throat is croaking slightly. “Charlie, turn around...”

“Huh?”

“Charlie, turn around!”

“What's wrong?” he asks, staring at me with a gormless grin. “Owen, dude, you're being weird again.”

“Turn around and look at the window,” I stammer, desperately hoping that he'll tell me there's nothing to be seen. “Turn around now!”

He gets to his feet, while keeping his eyes on me.

“Dude,” he continues, “you're freaking me out.”

“Turn around!” I shout.

He stares at me for a moment longer, before sighing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, finally mustering the courage to hurry over to him. I drop my glass in the process, but that doesn't matter, not as I grab his shoulders and force him to turn to the window. “Look at her! Tell me you see her!”

At that exact moment, the bride steps back into the darkness of the room, disappearing from view.

I wait, staring at the spot where she stood, hoping against hope that Charlie saw her.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks after a few seconds, sounding a little nervous. “Owen? Why have you got your knickers in a twist?”

I hesitate, before pushing past him and hurrying to the back door. Once I'm inside the house, I head to the study and push the door open, and then I flick the light on to reveal my empty workroom. There's nobody here, there's not even any hint that there was someone a moment ago, but I know what I saw. I head over to the window and look out, seeing Charlie watching me from the lawn, and then I turn to look over at the painting.

It was her.

Deep down, I know without a shadow of a doubt that the woman I just saw is the woman from the painting. Or at least, she was wearing the same dress.

“Hello?” I call out, looking over toward my desk and then at the open doorway. “Who's here? Show yourself!”

I wait.

Silence.

“Katinka Ashbyrn?” I whisper, feeling a sense of fear starting to tighten in my chest. “Are you here?”

A moment later, I hear footsteps nearby, and I turn to see Charlie wandering in from the garden with a glass of whiskey in his hands. He leans against the doorjamb for a few seconds, taking a couple of sips, and then he starts smiling.

“You look pale, old chap,” he tells me. “Come on, share the news. What's up?”

“You didn't see her?” I ask.

“See who?”

I open my mouth to tell him, but I can't bring myself to make such a ridiculous claim. Instead, I hurry past him and head through to the kitchen, where I quickly start pouring myself a fresh whiskey. My hands are trembling, and I can't get the image of that veiled woman out of my mind.

“Owen -”

Letting out a shocked gasp, I turn around, only to find that it's Charlie who has come up behind me.

“What's wrong?” he asks. “Owen, you're starting to scare me. You didn't see anything, did you?”

I stare at him for a moment, seeing the confusion in his eyes, before suddenly I realize that I've fallen straight into his trap. I've allowed the threads of my mind to be pulled one by one, until all my resilience and common sense unraveled. Charlie has only been here for a few hours, and I'm already a wreck. At the same time, as I continue to stare at Charlie, I can't help feeling that perhaps he's playing a game. Perhaps this is his revenge for what happened to him back in London.

“It was you,” I whisper.

“Huh?”

“You set this up.”

He takes a sip of whiskey. “What are you on about now?” he asks.

“I remember my bachelor party,” I continue, feeling a sense of rage starting to ripple through my chest. “You had that woman dress up as a police officer. You made me think...”

A faint smile curls across his lips. “And? That was a bit of fun, Owen. Nothing more. You remember the concept of fun, don't you?”

“And now you're here,” I stammer, “and you're trying to trick me again.”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

“I fell for it,” I add. “I can't believe I was so naive. I should have known that you'd try to pull another stunt on me. The bachelor party, the night out, the party... This is your revenge, isn't it? This is your way of getting back at me for what happened.”

“For what happened ?” He hesitates, as if he's trying to read my mind. “What are you talking about, Owen?” he adds finally. “You're my friend. Why would I want revenge for anything? What happened at your bachelor party?”

I stare at him in horror.

He smiles as he sips some more whiskey.

“What happened?” he asks again, and now his smile fades slightly. “Why do you feel so guilty?”

“Get out!” I shout, suddenly pushing the glass from his hand and sending it smashing to the floor.

He takes a step back. “Hang on, Owen, don't be all -”

“Get out of my house!” I yell breathlessly, struggling to keep from physically throwing him out the door. “Did you really come all this way just to pull a little stunt on me? Did you actually hire someone to dress up in a copy of that woman's wedding dress and stand at the window?”

“Steady on, I -”

“And at the train station, too! And at the storage facility!”

“What in the name of God are you on about?” he asks with a sigh. “Owen, maybe you've had a few too many whiskeys tonight, yeah? You're starting to sound absolutely paranoid.”

“I should have known it was you all along,” I continue, as all the pieces start to fall into place. “I bet you started researching the house as soon as I mentioned it. You must have been rubbing your hands together with glee when you found out about the so-called ghost. It's truly pathetic to think that you've got nothing better to do with your time than dream up elaborate hoaxes.”

“You're rambling,” he replies, stepping past me and reaching for another glass, only for me to push him back. “Steady on, Owen! You're gonna end up hurting yourself!”

“If you don't get out of my house right now,” I tell him, “I will throw you out, is that understood? I want you out of here, and I don't want you to ever call me again!”

“What did you see?” he asks. “Owen -”

“Get out!”

“Was it her?” he continues, with a hint of excitement in his voice. “Is that it? Owen, did you see the bride?”

“Get out of my house!”

“You have to come with me,” he replies. “Owen, I warned you, if -”

“Get out!”

Shoving him hard, I send him stumbling back until he steadies himself against the table. He's still staring at me with a shocked expression, as if he thinks I'm not serious, so I step closer to him again. He was never a big man, that was part of his problem with the booze, and I tower over him easily.

“Why don't we talk about this?” he asks. “Owen, you have to realize that you're being just a teeny tiny bit irrational here. If you saw something just now, it was nothing to do with me. Nothing, yeah? Do you understand?”

“Where is she now?”

“What do -”

“Get her out of my house!” I yell, stepping toward him. “Whatever actress you hired, get rid of her! I want both of you to get out of here right now!”

Reaching for his collar, I try to grab him, only to miss at the last moment and stumble. I slam into the side of the table and fall to the floor, letting out a gasp of pain as I feel a cracking sensation in my ribs. Wincing, I turn and start getting up, only to feel the pain again. This time, I hesitate for a moment, trying to get my breath back.

“You should be careful, Owen,” Charlie says, towering over me. “You're losing your grip. You've been here for, what, three days now? And look at you. You're already falling apart.”

“I was fine until you showed up and started playing tricks on me!” I hiss.

“There are no tricks here, Owen! Only the ones you're playing on yourself. Oh, and the ghost, obviously.”

“Get out of my house!” I gasp, trying and still failing to get to my feet. I think I might have fractured a rib, or at least given myself some heavy bruising. “I've had enough of people ! I want all of you to leave! Right now!”

I pause for a moment, before forcing myself up. This time I manage to stand, although it's hard to keep from crying out as I feel a crack of pain in my right side.

“Fine,” Charlie says, turning and heading to the door. “You're out of your mind, but obviously I can't help you. Have fun rattling around in this place by yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” I groan, waiting until he's left the room and then leaning back against the wall. “And take your partner-in-crime with you, if she hasn't run already! Tell her I'm sick of all these games!”

I wait, and a moment later I hear the front door slam shut. The house is silent now, and I swear I'll explode with fury if I find that those idiots are still here. Hobbling through to the corridor, I take a quick look around to make absolutely certain that I'm alone, and then I head back to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a shot of whiskey. Once that's downed, I pour myself a double and take it through to the study, where I stop for a moment and look at the window.

It was a trick.

Charlie was trying to make some kind of foolish point, but he's gone now.

I'm alone.

“Bob!” I call out, suddenly realizing that I haven't seen the dog for a few hours now. “Hey Bob, come here!”

Still wincing as I feel pain in my ribs, I head to the kitchen and then to the front room, searching for him. I have to check a few more rooms, but finally I locate him in the dining room. He's scratching at the floorboards, and after a moment I realize that he's still pawing at a spider.

“Hey,” I say as I head over to him. “Keeping yourself busy?”

He barely even looks at me. Instead, he hurries around the spider, still pawing the wood. It's as if he doesn't want to actually touch the spider, but he can't quite bring himself to leave it alone.

“That way lies madness,” I tell him, stepping into the room. “Buddy, you really ought to just -”

Before I can get any closer, he raises his head and snarls at me. I stop, shocked by his reaction, before figuring that he's probably just tired.

“Come on,” I continue, crouching next to him and taking a long, deep sip of my whiskey. I feel pretty drunk now, but I need to calm my nerves somehow. For a moment, I watch the spider as it scuttles into a crack in the wall. “It's just me, Bob. I'm sorry tonight has been so weird, but you mustn't let it get to you. I threw Charlie out and he won't be coming back. It's just us, and that's the way it should be. At least you don't try tricking me and playing the fool.”

I reach out to him, and this time he doesn't snarl. Stroking his side, I can tell that he's on edge, and after a moment he looks toward the open doorway as if he expects to see someone.

“People are just annoying,” I tell him. “Maybe that makes me sound bad, but it's what I truly believe. I spent long enough in London, Bob. I tried to get on with the world, but I couldn't. People let you down. They hurt you. They lie and they cheat and they deceive.” I pause, before allowing myself a faint smile as I stroke the top of Bob's head. “But I won't do any of those things to you, okay? I'll look after you. I'll be better than all those crazy people.”

I take another sip of whiskey, before leaning back and resting my head against the wall. After a few seconds, my eyes slip shut.

“I'll take care of you, Bob,” I whisper as I start to fall asleep. “You'll see. You can trust me.”

I fall silent for a moment, and my mind empties of all thoughts. This is better. This is how things should be.

***

Suddenly a bell rings out in the distance, and I open my eyes.

Bob lets out another faint whimper.

The bells rings again, a little louder this time.

“Are you serious?” I stammer, finding it hard to believe that I'm going to be tested again. Checking my watch, I see that it's almost midnight. I must have dozed off for a couple of minutes, right here on the floor like a goddamn drunk. “What fool is out there now? If that's Charlie, I swear I'm going to wring his neck!”

As the bell rings for a third time, I haul myself to my feet and down the rest of the whiskey, before heading to the kitchen and pouring myself another. I'm swaying a little now, and I know I'm drunk, but I figure I deserve a little reinforcement before I head back out there into the cold night air. I guess I was wrong to think that Charlie was going to leave me alone. Maybe he wants to drive me crazy, but I refuse to yield.

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” I slur, as the bell rings yet again. “Keep your panties on, asshole!”

Stumbling over to the back door, I push it open and spill out onto the steps. I almost trip a couple of times, but finally I reach the lawn and start making my way through the darkness, taking regular sips from my whiskey until I reach the tree-line and make my way around to see the ruins of the church towering high above me. For a moment, silhouetted against the starry sky, the old church actually looks rather beautiful.

I take another sip of whiskey before stumbling toward the ruins.

“Okay, Charlie,” I mumble, “let's be having you. I know you're -”

Suddenly the bell rings again, and this time there's no doubt about where it's coming from. Stopping at the foot of the tower, I look up toward the top as the bell's echo starts to fade. I don't know how he's managed it, but Charlie has managed to rig up some kind of sound system that makes it seem as if there's really a bell up there. If I wasn't so annoyed, I might actually be impressed.

“I know it's you!” I yell, swaying slightly as I continue to watch the ruined tower. High above, the stars seem to be swinging, although I guess that's because of all the whiskey I've drunk. “This is the most pathetic pantomime I've ever known! You might as well cut it out!”

As if to answer me, the bell rings out yet again.

“You're not going to let this go, are you?” I whisper, feeling a wave of tiredness even as I realize that I'm going to have to take measures to nip this madness in the bud.

Turning, I look around at the darkness, but I doubt I'd be able to see Charlie right now even if he was standing five feet away. He's obviously decided that he wants to torture me, and I suppose he thinks he's being clever, but I was cleverer than him when we were students and I'm a damn sight cleverer now. Nobody makes a fool of Owen Stone.

Looking around, I finally spot a ruined wall nearby. I head over and check that it's sturdy, and then I start climbing up.

“I'm not an idiot,” I mutter, balancing carefully and taking another swig of whiskey, before looking up and trying to judge the best way to climb. I know Charlie can't have gone too high when he planted some kind of speaker system, so I doubt I'll have to go all the way to the top of the tower.

Regardless, anything Charlie managed to do, I can do too.

Reaching up, I grab another section of brickwork and then I haul myself higher. I have to hold the edge of my whiskey glass with my teeth, freeing my other hand so that I can steady myself. The stones and bricks feel firm as I continue to climb, and I'm convinced that at any moment I'll find some stupid little speaker connected to an iPod. Of course, it's possible that Charlie climbed up a different way, but I don't really see another route. Still gripping the glass between my teeth, I reach up and fumble for a moment, before climbing up a little further.

Stopping again, I take one more glug of whiskey, finishing the glass. I look down and see to my surprise that I must be twenty, maybe twenty-five feet off the ground. Wow, I climb fast. For a moment, I consider setting my whiskey glass somewhere safe, but finally I realize that it's just a distraction. I hold it out for a moment, admiring it in the moonlight, and then I let it fall. Looking down, I wait a couple of seconds and then I hear it smash against the wall below.

“Farewell, little glass,” I mutter, as a particularly cold gust of wind blows against me. “You served well, and you died for a noble cause. You were -”

I let out a sudden hiccup.

“You were the finest of glasses,” I add, before reaching up and starting to climb once more. “You were one of the glasses Vanessa bought for our apartment, I believe,” I continue. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to find this goddamn speaker, even if it's the last thing I ever -”

Suddenly my right hand slips. As I try to grab hold of another purchase point, my feet slip too, but at the last moment I'm able to grab a protruding stone and keep myself from falling. I wait, trying to regather my composure as I cling precariously to the wall of stones, and then I haul myself up again. I'm drunk, sure, but not drunk enough to make a mistake, so I know I can climb without too much risk. Still, my left foot almost slips on the cold stones, and I take a moment to consider my next move before starting to haul myself up a little higher.

If I don't find the source of the ringing sound soon, I'll give up until morning and then I'll hire a goddamn cherry-picker.

A moment later, as if to goad me on, the bell rings out again. This time, I can tell that the source is still quite a way above me, maybe even at the very top of the tower. I stop climbing for a moment, before realizing that there's no way I can go all the way up. I adjust my grip carefully, and then I start climbing back down. Maybe the cherry-picker is a good idea after all.

“You don't beat me that easily!” I yell, so that Charlie can hear me no matter where he's hiding. “I see right through you! Do you realize that? I know exactly what you -”

Suddenly my left foot slips, and this time I'm not quick enough to steady myself. Instead I fall from the side of the tower and plummet through the darkness until I slam into the ground far below.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Katinka - 1859

The church looks so beautiful late at night, with moonlight catching the bricks.

I limp across the clearing, forcing myself to keep going despite the immense pain in my side. Glancing back toward the house, I see that the only light comes from the fire that still burns in the study fireplace. Mother and Charles both retired to bed some time ago, and I'm sure they'd be shocked to learn that I am up and about. After all, it's close to midnight and a lady should have no business being outside at such an awful hour.

Still, I make my way through the dark forest, barely able to see a thing, until finally I spot a sliver of moonlight that has caught the edge of Pippa's dead face.

“Hello, sister,” I say as I stop next to her. “My, it is cold out here, isn't it?”

I pause, leaving a space for her to speak even though I know full well that she cannot. Still, one must be polite, even around the dead.

“I was thinking over dinner,” I continue, kneeling next to the corpse. “Oh, dinner was magnificent, by the way! We had pork, your favorite!”

Smiling, I'm able to see her dead features a little more clearly now. Her eyes are wide open, just as I left them earlier, although the breeze has blown dirt across her face. Her mouth is slightly parted, almost as if she's on the verge of speaking. When I peer around the side of her head, I see that thick, congealed blood has begun to dry on the various spots where I crushed her skull.

A moment later, I see yet another of those infernal spiders crawling across her cheek. I watch, fascinated, as it stops at the edge of her mouth. Its spindly legs twitch, feeling the dead lips, and then suddenly the spider disappears inside her mouth and I realize I can hear a very faint scratching sound coming from the back of her throat.

“I don't want to do what I'm about to do, dear sister,” I say softly. “Then again, I didn't want to kill you in the first place. You just drove me into such a rage, and you know I can't always control myself when I'm angry. Really, I think the blame is equally yours and mine. We merely -”

Before I can finish, a second spider climbs up the other side of her face and – like the first – scurries into the dark cavern of her mouth.

“You're popular tonight, Pippa,” I say with a smile, as a third spider joins the other two and enters her body. “Perhaps there's still a little warmth, somewhere deep down in your body. Whereas your mind...”

I stare at her dead eyes for a moment.

“Did you find the oblivion of death?” I ask, trying to imagine what it must be like to have one's mind snuffed out. “Are you gone entirely? Or do you linger in some way? Are you a ghost?”

I wait.

All I hear is the scratching of those little spider legs, deep in my sister's gullet.

“Or do only strong people come back after their bodies have died?” I continue. “Perhaps the death of the body only causes the death of the mind in a select few cases. Perhaps someone who is strong, or someone who is angry, can persist in some form?”

Leaning closer to Pippa's face, I listen to the sound of spiders scratching inside her throat. A moment later, I move down and press my ear against her belly, and I realize I can hear more spiders deeper in her body. There must be scores of them now, perhaps as many as a hundred. I suppose they're eating her from the inside, or making nests, or simply seeking heat.

“Perhaps it is too late to apologize to you, Pippa,” I whisper as I sit up, “but to the spiders who are making you their home now, I extend my most profound regret for what I am about to do.”

I hesitate, before reaching down and starting to rip the top of her dress, as a ruffian might if he were seeking to molest her body.

“I just need to make the attack appear more convincing,” I whisper. “You'd understand, I'm sure.”

I finish tearing the dress, and then I pull her undergarments aside to partially expose her bare chest. Taking a stick from the ground, I break it in half and then I use the sharp end to scratch Pippa's flesh. I cut a line up over her pale little breast and toward her collar, and then I cut the other side of her neck. I have to press harder than I'd anticipated, perhaps because she has been dead for several hours, but by the time I'm done she has several scratches that appear – at least to me – rather horrific.

“You shouldn't have made me angry,” I continue, feeling a tightening sensation in my chest. “What did you think would come of that, Pippa? Don't you remember when we were children, and your silly games used to make me become so very...”

I pause, thinking back to those awful times.

“Father chastised me,” I add. “You used to weep when I hit you, and that always caused Father to get angry with me. Which, on balance, was your fault. Sometimes, I think Father began to see me as some kind of monster, but fortunately I was able to change his mind. By the end of his life, Father had taken to me again, and he saw that I was simply strong and you were simply weak. I'm sure he'd accept that I had no choice, dear sister, other than to end your miserable life.”

Again, I leave a moment in which she might reply to me, but in my mind's eye I'm already remembering the days when she and I would play on the lawn. I was only eleven years old when I realized that Father was worried about me dominating my little sister, but I quickly learned how to make him love me again. By the time he died, I know I was his favorite. He preferred me to Pippa, and to Mother too.

“You were very pretty,” I tell Pippa's corpse, as I stare down into her glassy, dead eyes. “Nobody would believe that you'd been killed and not molested in some way. Why, any man who chanced upon you and killed you, would surely have his way after.”

I hesitate again, before reaching down and tearing her dress around the hem, pulling the fabric aside to expose her private parts. I flinch, hating the fact that I'm having to do such a wretched thing, but I know deep down that I cannot afford any half-measures.

“What would a maniac do?” I whisper. “A real madman? A monster?”

I hesitate, before starting to gather a bunch of rotten twigs. I snap the ends off some, and then I add a few more until finally I have a full bouquet of sharp little sticks. I know what I have to do next, although I must confess to some feelings of regret. Pippa had some good qualities, and she wasn't entirely a fool. At the same time, she ultimately let me down rather awfully, and she should have known that my temper would flare. Perhaps she thought age had mellowed me entirely, perhaps she missed the fact that I was constantly having to keep myself under control. If so, she made a fatal miscalculation.

“This,” I tell her finally, “is just for the sake of appearances.

With that, I tighten my grip on the bouquet of twigs, and then I get to work. It takes a few minutes before I'm finished, and then I sit back and stare at the ravages I have caused. More spiders are arriving and crawling into her gaping mouth, and I can hear their little legs scratching all through her insides. Other than that, however, the moonlit scene is rather quiet.

Early the next morning, shortly after Mother has left the house for her morning constitutional, a horrified scream rings out from the forest.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Owen - Today

Opening my eyes, I see the stars bright above me. For a moment, I don't quite remember where I am or how I got here, but finally I realize that I fell from the ruined church.

Suddenly something touches the side of my face. A hand. I try to turn and look to my right, but there's a tight, tense pain in my neck and a moment later I feel another shot of pain arcing through my shoulders.

I let out a gasp, before my eyes slip shut again and I drift back into darkness. Someone's here with me, though. That much is certain. I guess Charlie must have come back. I'm not alone.

***

It's the pain that finally wakes me properly. Searing, agonizing pain that throbs through my left leg and brings me gasping from the depths of unconsciousness. I instinctively try to sit up, only for the pain to flare a thousand times worse, and finally I settle back against the bed.

I try to draw breath, but I can barely get any air into my lungs at all. Instead, all I feel is a thousand tiny blades slicing through my chest, filling my throat with a squirming mass. I tilt my head back, choking hard and trying to cough some of the blades out, and after a moment I feel several tickling sensations scurrying up into my mouth. I cough again, this time managing to blast some of the little creatures onto the inside of my lips, and finally I realize what they are.

Spiders.

Hundreds and hundreds of spiders are crawling through my body. Some are in my lungs, some are in my throat, and some have torn through curtains of meat to get closer to my bones. Still barely able to breathe, I focus on coughing over and over, and each time I manage to bring more and more of the little bastards up into my mouth. I feel fuller than ever, though, and now I'm certain that some of the spiders have even managed to make their way into my bones, where they're digging through the marrow.

“Help me,” I try to gasp, but all I'm able to get out are a few guttural clicks. “Help -”

Suddenly I see her. The bride is sitting next to the bed, staring down at me through her veil. I try to ask her what she's doing, but she seems strangely calm, and after a moment she leans a little closer. I can just about make out her unblinking eyes, and she tilts her head to one side before reaching up with bony, thin-fleshed hands and lifting her veil. Finally I see her wretched, rotten face, with burned patches of skin clinging loosely to the bone beneath. She tilts her head a little more and opens her mouth, revealing rows of discolored teeth, and then she lets out a slow, lilting hiss as she begins to smile.

“No,” I stammer, trying but failing to get up. I cough again, bringing more wriggling spiders into my mouth, but the bride is leaning closer and closer until she presses her lips against mine. It's almost as if she's trying to give me a very delicate, very chaste kiss.

And I can smell her. The stink of decomposing flesh fills my nostrils, bringing me to the point of nausea.

“Please,” I gurgle, “let me out of here...”

“Mine,” she whispers, letting her lips brush once more against mine. “My darling husband. Forever and ever, 'til death do us part.”

“No!” I scream, and suddenly I find the strength to sit up My heart is pounding, but the bride is gone and somehow the light of the room seems different now. I look around, startled, but I can breathe properly and the sensation of spiders in my body is gone. A moment later, I feel something brushing against my lips, and I brush one more spider away.

It was a dream.

Just a dream.

Even though I can still feel the pressure of her lips against mine, and even though my heart is thumping in my chest, I force myself to focus on the fact that I must have been dreaming.

Nearby, a fire is roaring in the fireplace, filling the otherwise dark room with constantly shifting patterns of light.

I don't remember starting a fire.

I don't even remember coming back into the house, but I guess someone must have carried me. I can feel my head throbbing with each beat of my heart as I sink back down against the bed. I'm far too exhausted to stay sitting up, even for a moment longer.

“Charlie,” I whisper, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Charlie, where are you?”

No reply.

I blink, and for a fraction of a second I think I see the bride's rotten face again. She fades quickly, but the image is enough to send a fresh burst of panic through my chest.

I try to turn my head, but the pain is intense. I take a deep breath, focusing on the fact that I need to see what's happening, and then I try again. This time I force myself to turn until I can see the open doorway, but there's still no sign of anyone. All I see is is the corridor outside, and it's clear that somehow I was carried all the way up the stairs and into my room.

I start coughing briefly, unable to quite forget the sensation of spiders crawling up my throat. I know they weren't real, I know I was just dreaming, but I swear I can almost still feel them.

“Charlie!” I gasp, figuring he must be in the house somewhere. “Charlie, I'm awake!”

I wait, and after a moment I realize I can hear a faint bumping sound far-off in the house. It sounds like somebody is coming up the stairs, but there's no urgency at all.

“Charlie!”

This time I manage to move my left hand down to the side of the bed and start banging my knuckles against the wood. I know he must be able to hear me, and sure enough the footsteps come to a halt. They sounded so close, but there was still no sign of anyone in the empty doorway.

“Charlie, help!” I stammer. “Did you call an ambulance? How long will they be?”

I wait, but now the only sound comes from the roaring, crackling fire on the other side of the room. I'm sure Charlie must be out there in the corridor, but he seems content now to simply wait.

“Charlie, what are you doing?” I continue, trying again to sit up but feeling another rush of pain in my ribs. “Charlie, I'm in agony! Did you call an ambulance or not?”

Again, the only reply is silence.

“This isn't a joke!” I yell, forcing myself onto my side despite the extreme pain in my ribs, legs and feet. I don't know exactly what happened to me when I fell, but I've never been in such agony in all my life and I think I can taste blood at the back of my throat. Reaching for my pocket, I fumble to find my phone, but I guess I must have left it downstairs somewhere.

Looking toward the open door, I listen for any sign that Charlie's still out there.

“Help me!” I gasp. “Charlie, seriously... Charlie!”

I wait.

I swear there's someone in the corridor, but I don't understand why Charlie wouldn't come into the room. He was always something of a joker, but he was never insane and he must realize that I'm in serious trouble. I guess maybe he's trying to prove some kind of point about what happened to him at my bachelor party.

“Charlie, is that you?” I stammer, already feeling weaker. “Whoever you are, can you please come in here? I just need to know that you've called an ambulance. I'm hurt. It's really bad, I can't even walk.”

When he still doesn't reply, I force myself to sit up. Looking down at my left leg, I'm shocked to see that it appears to be broken just below the knee, with a thick patch of blood on the side of my torn trousers. If it's not broken, it's at least fractured. The sight is so horrific, I start trembling slightly, and I can only assume that sheer adrenaline is keeping me from feeling the full brunt of the agony.

“Oh God,” I whisper, trying to keep from panicking as I look around and see that there's nothing on the bedside table other than a glass of water. “Charlie!” I shout. “Charlie, get in here! Charlie, help!”

Hearing a faint whimpering sound nearby, I turn and see for the first time that Bob is here with me. He's in the corner, with his eyes fixed firmly on the door, and a moment later he starts letting out a low, rumbling growl.

“Get help!” I stammer. “Bob, help me, please...”

My voice fades off as I realize that there's no way he can possibly do anything. He's not goddamn Lassie. Figuring that I need to get out of this room, I look around for a moment longer before realizing that there's only one option. Reaching over the side of the bed, I suppose myself on my trembling arms and then I start slowly lowering myself onto the floor. The pain is intense, and I know it'll feel much worse when I start bringing my left leg down, but I can't just stay here in the room and hope for the best.

“Please don't hurt too much,” I whisper, as I prepare to move my leg. “Come on, please...”

I count to three, and then I start swinging my broken leg off the bed. The pain is shocking, causing me to cry out, but I keep going until it bumps down against the boards and a whole new wave of agony surges through my body. Sobbing and whimpering, I roll onto my side, desperately trying to find a position that'll lessen the pain, but if anything the agony is getting worse and worse. Tears are streaming down my face now and I'm worried I might black out at any moment, but I know I have to keep going.

“Charlie, help me,” I sob, hoping against hope that there's been some huge misunderstanding and he's going to rush into the room at any moment. “Charlie, I'm in real trouble here. Charlie, I'm sorry for everything I said and I'm sorry for what happened at the bachelor party, but I need your help right now. If you can do anything, even if it's just bringing my phone to me, I'm begging you...”

I wait. Even though I can tell someone's out there in the corridor, it's clear that Charlie isn't going to do anything.

“I'm sorry,” I whimper, still hoping that he might be able to hear me. “Charlie, I'm so sorry. I know it's my fault, I know you have every right to hate me. Maybe I never had to face the consequences of my actions, but I'm dying here. I need you...”

He's doing this on purpose.

He has to be.

This is his way of getting back at me. People told me over and over again that I shouldn't blame myself, but deep down I've always known that it was my fault. Even Charlie himself insisted that I did nothing wrong, and I guess over time I actually came to believe him. Now it's clear that he was just biding his time, just waiting for a situation to arise so that he could make me pay.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the pain to come.

“I'm not going to just sit here,” I tell him, convinced that he's out in the corridor and that he can hear me. “I can't just stay in this room and wait to die!”

The fire is still burning, but the rest of the house seems completely quiet.

Closing my eyes, I start counting down from ten. In a strange way, it helps to know that the pain is inevitable. It's not like I need to waste any time trying to avoid the pain, so instead I just have to focus on getting through it. By the time I've counted to five, I feel ready to at least haul myself into the corridor, and by three I'm tempted to start early. I wait a moment longer, however, until finally I get to one and I haul myself forward, roaring as my damaged leg drags against the wooden floorboards.

No matter how much I want to stop, I keep going until I'm out in the corridor and then I slump down, desperately trying to get my breath back.

“Help me,” I whisper, before looking toward the stairs.

There's no-one out here.

I turn and look the other way, but I'm all alone. Either I was wrong earlier, or Charlie managed to sneak away when he realized I was on the move. Maybe he wants to do more than watch me suffer; maybe he wants to prolong my agony and really make me pay. Maybe I've been abandoned now. If that's the case, I could die here.

“Help!” I scream, starting to feel dizzy again. My eyesight is getting blurry, and I'm not sure I have the strength to keep going, but I know I can't afford to pass out now.

Reaching forward, I start dragging myself along the corridor, heading toward the top of the stairs. I try to use the pain as fuel, refusing to give myself a break, but finally I slump back down and let out another gasp. I can feel myself losing consciousness again, and this time I'm not strong enough to fight back. Finally I turn and look at my damaged leg, and I see that there's a lot of blood smeared behind me.

I can't do this.

I'll never make it.

And with that, I let my head drop until my face bumps against the floorboards. I barely even have the strength to take another breath.

***

Suddenly letting out an agonized scream, I jolt awake and try to sit up. My left leg is agony, burning through my body. I'm back on the bed, and somebody is clutching my leg with one hand just below the knee and the other a little further down.

My vision is too blurred for me to see properly, even when I squint.

“Charlie,” I gasp, “is that you? Are you trying to -”

Before I can get another word out, my leg is snapped together and I let out a gasp of pain. Slumping back against the bed, I start shuddering as the agony gets worse and worse. Hands are still holding my leg firmly, with grim and unrelenting determination, and I can't even begin to fight back as sweat pours down my face. The pain is flooding my mind, and all I can do is scream.

***

The fire is still burning as I open my eyes. The room is warm and quiet, and strangely calm, although I can already feel a hot, sore pain returning to my left leg. Still, the agony is less intense than before, and after a moment I manage to sit up.

My leg has been bandaged.

“What the...”

I pause for a moment, before looking at the bedside table and seeing that there are three tins of beans, along with a can-opener and a packet of paracetamol. The water from before is still there, too, and there's a big glass of whiskey filled almost to the brim.

Reaching out with trembling hands, I pop three paracetamol tablets into the palm of my hand and swallow them, chasing them down with water. I'm starving too, so I open the first tin of beans and tip them into my mouth. It's not exactly good, comforting food, but it's better than nothing and I quickly open the second tin. The pain in my leg is getting worse and worse, but hopefully the paracetamol will at least take the edge off. Besides, the agony isn't quite as bad as before.

Taking a look at my watch, I see that it's a little after 11pm. Just as I'm about to marvel at the fact that I must have slept all day, I see that the date is the twelfth, which means I've actually been here in the bedroom for three days. It was the night of the ninth when I threw Charlie out, but I don't understand how I can have been on the bed for so long.

Hearing a faint bumping sound nearby, I turn and see that Bob is still in the corner, still watching me. He looks weak, but he slowly gets to his feet and comes over to the bed. As he does so, his tail starts wagging slightly, as if he's pleased to see that I'm awake.

“Have you been down there all this time?” I ask, reaching for him and hauling him onto the bed. I can feel his ribs, so I grab the second tin of beans and tip the rest of the contents into my hands. He gobbles them up, and he drinks eagerly when I hold the glass of water out for him.

What the hell has been going on here?

Turning, I look toward the open doorway. Clearly somebody else is in the house, and it's not hard to guess that Charlie must be behind all of this. I guess he must really hate me after all, although when I look back down at my left leg I can't help noticing that he seems to have done a good job of fixing me up. Charlie's never really been the nurse type, so maybe he got some help.

“Hello!” I shout, figuring I might as well let him know that I'm awake. “Charlie, are you downstairs? We need to talk!”

I wait, but all I hear is the sound of the fire crackling, along with Bob's continued attempts to drink from the cup.

“Did you see him?” I ask, turning to the dog. My vision is better now, but I still feel a little weak. I guess I lost a lot of blood. Only Charlie would actually think to put whiskey next to my bed at a time like this, although I can't deny that I could use a pick-me-up.

As Bob continues to drink water, I grab the whiskey glass and down its contents in one. Whiskey shouldn't make me feel better right now, but it does.

“Charlie!” I yell. “This is insane! I need actual medical help!”

No reply.

“Charlie!”

I wait, and this time I hear a door creaking in the distance. Somebody's definitely downstairs, but I guess they think they've got me cornered up here in the room. They might be right, too, although I reckon I could maybe manage to hobble down the stairs. Then again, I'd make a lot of noise, and my captor would undoubtedly come to force me back into the bedroom. I need to be smart here, but so far I'm all out of ideas.

“I have to go down,” I whisper, turning to Bob. “I have to! I can't just sit here and wait for him to...”

My voice trails off.

“I don't know what he wants to do to me,” I continue, “but he was my friend once, before the bachelor party. I can talk to him, I know I can. He's just angry.”

Bob lets out a faint whimper, and I can't say I blame him. I give him a quick stroke on the neck, before turning and slowly easing myself over to the edge of the bed. My leg is still hurting, but it's a pain I can deal with for now, so I carefully put all my weight on my undamaged right leg and lean against the wall for support as I haul myself up. As I do so, I knock the bedside table and send the empty whiskey glass crashing to the floor, and then I start hopping over to the doorway.

With the amount of noise I've made, I'm sure Charlie already knows that I'm up and about.

“I'm coming down!” I shout. “This has gone too far! Do you hear me? I'm coming down there!”

I start hobbling along the corridor. A moment later, I hear Bob scrabbling after me, but for now I just have to focus on getting to the stairs. There's no sound of anyone moving about in any of the lower rooms, so I guess Charlie isn't panicking just yet. I don't blame him. In this state, I'm no match for anyone, but I have to try. By the time I get to the top of the stairs and look down toward the hallway, I'm starting to wonder whether Charlie has left.

Maybe he thinks he's taught me a lesson, and he's done now.

It takes forever for me to get down the stairs. Each step causes a fresh bump to my broken leg, sending a wave of agony through my body. I try not to cry out, just in case Charlie is lurking in one of the nearby rooms and listening with glee to my suffering, but eventually I can't help groaning as I reach the halfway point. I've begun to sweat again, like an absolute madman, and for a moment I can't quite believe that I'll ever make it to the bottom of the stairs, much less that I'll actually be able to find my phone and call for help.

“Charlie!” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You have to stop this! You've made your point!”

I wait, but all I hear is the sound of flames roaring in the study's fireplace. When this is all over, I'm going to block up all those bloody fireplaces and just use the central heating.

“You're going too far, Charlie,” I whisper, feeling for a moment as if I might pass out again. “I'm sorry. I know it was my fault, and I'm sorry.”

Hearing a scratching sound at the top of the stairs, I look up just in time to see Bob coming into view. He stops and looks at me with mournful eyes, and I quickly realize that I have to keep going.

Carefully maneuvering myself down to the next step, I can already hear Bob coming after me. He's a loyal dog, I'll give him that, and he sticks with me as I finally get down to the hallway. Out of breath and struggling to deal with the throbbing agony in my left leg, I pause for a moment and lean back against the wall, only for Bob to nudge my arm and then lick my hand.

“It's okay,” I tell him. “All I have to do is find my phone and call for help. Everything'll be fine.”

Easier said than done.

I take a moment to think back to earlier, and finally I decide that I must have left my phone in the kitchen. Getting to my feet would be too painful, so I decide to drag myself across the hallway and take the quickest route to the kitchen, which means going through the drawing room. After gritting my teeth again, I start hauling my way across the floorboards, while trying to use the pain as extra motivation.

And then, suddenly, I look through into the study and see that not only is the fire burning, but a glass of whiskey has been set close to my laptop and candles are burning next to the desk. It's almost as if somebody has set the room up perfectly, ready for me to get to work.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Katinka - 1859

“Oh, it's quite awful!” Mother sobs as I sit comforting her in the drawing room. “My poor Pippa! What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

“The world is full of awful people,” I reply, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “This is why we need a man here. Someone to protect us.”

“But she was so sweet,” she whimpers. “So innocent...”

“Yes,” I mutter, as I hear footsteps approaching the room. “She was innocent, wasn't she? I'm sure that when she met the person who ended her life, she had no idea she was in danger. But often, I fear, it is the sweet and innocent who most attract the monstrous in this world.”

I turn just in time to see that the magistrate, Mr. Pollock, has reached the door. He pauses for a moment, before I nod to let him know that he might enter.

“Is there any word?” Mother asks, getting to her feet as tears stream down her face. “Have you discovered who did this awful thing to my youngest girl?”

“There can be no doubt that Pippa was murdered,” he replies gravely. “I shan't go into the details, but suffice to say her head had been beaten most cruelly against a rock, and her dress was torn. There was also...” He hesitates, and I can see the sense of shock in his eyes. “There was also signs of damage to her body,” he adds finally. “Evidently the poor girl was subjected to a quite ferocious assault of a sexual nature.”

“With sticks and such things?” I ask, forcing myself to suppress a smile.

He nods. “Indeed. I shall spare you the rest of the details.”

Mother collapses on one of the armchairs, sobbing hysterically. I myself feel rather calm, but I suppose I should show some compassion and sorrow. I sit next to her and offer some comfort by placing a hand on her shoulder, even though I feel deep down that she is becoming somewhat histrionic. Pippa's death is undoubtedly a shock, but I had hoped that she might be a little more restrained about the whole thing. Besides, she needs to stay focused on my impending wedding.

“I want to assure you both,” Mr. Pollock continues, “that we are going to find whoever did this. Obviously some brute intruded upon your property and targeted poor Pippa. There can't be many people in the area who'd be capable of such an awful act, so I feel confident that soon we'll have somebody apprehended. And when that happens, there'll be no need to delay the meting-out of justice. We have a perfectly good set of gallows in the town square, and I shall put the miscreant to death. I most certainly do not wish to call in outside forces to take charge of the investigation. Here in Turthfeddow, we deal our own brand of justice.”

“Meanwhile,” I add, forcing a smile as I look down at Mother, “we must ensure that Pippa is buried swiftly. Before the wedding.”

“Perhaps the wedding should be postponed,” a voice says suddenly.

Turning, I see Charles standing in the doorway. Ashen-faced and clearly in shock, he looks as if he might faint at any moment. I must admit to feeling a little disappointed by his reaction, too. Am I surrounded by weak-bellied fools?

“Nonsense,” I tell him. “We shall bury Pippa, and then the wedding can rouse all our spirits.”

“Katinka,” he continues, “do you really think that, in the circumstances, it would be right to -”

“Yes!” I say firmly. “And Mother agrees with me!” I turn to her. “Don't you, Mother?”

She sniffs back more tears. “I don't know, darling. Perhaps Charles is right, perhaps -”

I squeeze her hand tight, tight enough to hurt her fingers.

She lets out a faint gasp, but it's clear that she gets the message.

“I suppose I agree,” she whimpers finally. “I mean...”

Her voice trails off, and there is fear in her tear-filled eyes.

“I should go and attend to the removal of the body,” Mr. Pollock mutters, turning and heading out of the room, leaving us in silence.

“Pippa would not want her murder to stand in the way of our future,” I continue, hoping very much that Charles will come to understand my way of seeing things. “She would want life at Ashbyrn House to go on. And with the preparations having come so far, it would be very difficult to cancel at such a late moment. Why, some of the guests might even have set off by now! What would people think?”

“They'd think...” Charles pauses. “They'd think that your sister has been murdered, Katinka, and that a little decorum is -”

“Nonsense!” I hiss, struggling now to control my anger. “The wedding shall go ahead, and this is final. I shall see to the arrangements for the funeral myself, and all shall be well with the world. In fact, I think I shall go and start making preparations right now.”

Mother is still a weeping mess, so I suppose there's nothing more I can do for her at the moment. I leave her on the armchair and step past Charles, making my way to the door.

“You should leave tonight,” I whisper to him. “There is nothing more for you to do at Ashbyrn House before the wedding.”

“I meant what I said about the church,” he replies, hurrying after me.

“I know you did,” I continue, stopping and turning to him with such suddenness that he almost runs straight into me. “But that's by the by, Charles. I should think you know better than to argue with me.”

I wait for a reply, but now there seems to be a hint of fear in his eyes.

“The church shall stand for all time,” I say firmly. “You are a man of business, are you not? So I am sure you'll be able to find some other way to make money once you take control of Ashbyrn House. That, after all, is one of the reasons I am marrying you. You are supposed to be possessed of a fine mind. I do hope you'll show some evidence of that quality at some point.”

“We shall delay the wedding,” he replies. “We must, Katinka!”

“Perhaps he's right,” Mother whimpers, still dabbing at her eyes. “Katinka, please... We cannot go ahead with such festivities, not at such a sorrowful time. Please, show some respect for your poor dead sister.”

“Respect?” I reply, shocked by the pair of them. “Sometimes, I think I am the only person in this entire family who knows what the word even means. Why do you not show respect for my wedding plans? They cannot possibly be canceled at such short notice!”

I wait for one of them, or preferably both, to admit that I am right, but instead they stare at me with gormless expressions.

“This wedding is going ahead,” I continue finally, “and there will be no more debate on the subject. I hope that neither of you intend to test me on this matter. Please, be assured that I shall get my way. I hardly imagine that either of you could doubt me. Not if you profess to know me at all.”

A short while later, alone in my room with the door locked, I take the blade to the other side of my waist. I cannot allow Pippa's unfortunate death to become a distraction. My wedding remains the most important matter at hand, and I shall make the others see that. This time in a week, I shall be married to Charles, and the future glory of Ashbyrn House shall be assured.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Owen - Today

“Quiet, Bob,” I whisper, as I keep typing. “I'm working. You mustn't disturb me when I'm working.”

The dog is fussing around my feet, clawing at the chair-leg in an increasingly desperate attempt to get my attention. I know he needs food and water, and he probably needs to pee as well, but right now I'm in the zone with my writing and I can't possibly take a break. Even the pain in my leg seems like a trivial problem right now, partly thanks to some stronger painkillers that somehow made their way from the bathroom through to the study. And partly, I suppose, because time has begun to heal the wound. Perhaps the bone wasn't even fractured at all. Perhaps it was only bruised.

I swear, it's almost as if Charlie pushed me to breaking point and then decided to help me work.

And the words are flowing, maybe even faster than before. Several more keys on my laptop have now been worn down until their letters are no longer showing, but I can touch-type just fine. Checking the word count, I find that I've added another twenty-five thousand to the sixty thousand from the other day, but I'm still barely halfway through the story. It's as if somehow I'm able to write in a kind of daze, ignoring the pain in my body, although I have to admit that staring at a screen for so long is starting to make my eyes sore.

My back hurts, too. Probably from all the hunched typing, but there'll be time to fix that later.

“Seven buckets,” I read out-loud from the screen, as I double-check the last sentence I wrote, “all in a row.”

Grabbing the whiskey glass, I take a last sip. The bottle is somewhere nearby, but I'll get a refill later. Setting the empty glass back down, I focus on the screen as I type furiously. There are a couple of creaking sounds nearby, and Bob lets out a harried groan, but I'm barely aware of anything beyond the screen's edge. The screen is the world, or at least it's my world right now. The only thing that matters is what I've typed at this desk.

And then, barely thinking, I glance at the whiskey glass and see that it's full again.

Stopping for a moment, I look around the room. There's nobody in here, and I can't believe Charlie could have snuck in and refilled the glass without being noticed, but somebody topped me up again. I turn and look at the wall, where I see to my surprise that several more spiders have been crushed against the cracks. Did I do that?

Outside, the first rays of morning light are starting to break through the trees.

“Hello?” I call out, but my voice sounds small and fearful in the silence.

Figuring that maybe I poured the whiskey myself, and that I'm simply in some kind of daze, I take a sip and then get back to work. Bob claws at my right leg, and I gently nudge him away; this happens a couple more times, before he finally seems to get the message and I'm vaguely aware of him heading out of the room. I'll make it up to him later by playing with him on the lawn, but for now I just have to keep working. Checking the word count, I find that I'm now up to thirty thousand for the day, which means the new book is getting close to the magic hundred thousand mark. Then again, there's still so much further to go.

A moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder, running to the base of my neck. I remember when Vanessa used to walk past me while I was writing; sometimes she'd touch my shoulder like this, just to let me know that she was still around. After all, she understood that I had a tendency to disappear into my work. It feels good to have that sensation again, even if I quickly realize that it must have been all in my head. Vanessa is long gone, and I'm all alone in the house.

“It's okay,” I whisper, the way I used to whisper to Vanessa, even as I feel her fingertips running across my shoulders again. “I'll be done soon.”

I don't look up, not even as I sense someone walking around the desk. There's no point looking, since I know full well that my mind is simply playing tricks on me. Even when I hear footsteps heading away, moving toward the door, I keep my eyes fixed on the screen. All that matters right now is my work, and I can't let my addled mind put a bunch of visions and hallucinations in the way.

Vanessa understood.

She accepted that my work was important.

Finally, just as I'm getting to a crucial part of the book, I feel a sudden shooting pain in my fingers. Letting out a gasp, I sit back in the chair and stairs at my hands, which seem for a moment to have seized up after typing for so long. My fingers are all bent and gnarled, and I can't manage to move them, although the sensation quickly passes and I'm able to straighten them properly.

Still, I think maybe my body is trying to send me a message. I should take a short break, even if it means that the pain in my broken leg will come back.

Turning, I see the painting of the bride hanging on the opposite wall, next to the door. For a moment, I almost feel as if she's watching me.

“Maybe you're my good luck charm,” I mutter under my breath, starting to feel a little drowsy. “Maybe I should -”

Suddenly a figure walks past the room. I look over at the door, but she's already out of view again, and a moment later I hear Bob barking furiously in the kitchen. My heart is pounding, and I already know that what I saw in the corner of my eye couldn't possibly have been Charlie. It was definitely a woman in a wedding gown, with her face covered by a veil.

And Bob sounds panicked, barking louder and louder.

“Who's there?” I call out.

I wait, but all I hear is Bob barking and snarling.

“Charlie, is that you?”

No reply.

“This is ridiculous,” I continue, flexing my fingers a little in the hope that I'll mitigate any damage from all the typing. “Come on, just -”

Suddenly Bob lets out a pained cry, accompanied by a distinct crunching sound, and then he falls silent. A moment later, I hear a soft thud, as if something was dropped onto the kitchen floor.

I wait.

Now the only sound is the continued crackling of the flames in the fireplace. Other than that, the house is completely silent.

“Bob?” I call out.

Nothing.

No whimpering, no barking. No sound of paws hurrying along the corridor.

Only silence.

“Bob! Come, boy! Heel!”

I sit completely still for a moment, convinced that Bob will come running through. He has to. I might have only had him for a few days now, but I've started to enjoy having him around, and I swear I'm going to play with him later. Telling myself that he's fine, I turn back to the screen and get ready to type again, but suddenly the lack of his barking makes me worry that something's seriously wrong. I type a few words, but I can't stop thinking about the dog and finally I wince as I slowly and stiffly get to my feet.

At least the painkillers are half-working.

Hobbling around the desk, I make my way unsteadily to the doorway, and then I head out into the corridor.

“Bob?” I yell, trying to stay calm. “Come here, boy! Come on, you're starting to worry me!”

Silence.

“Bob?”

Limping like an old man, I feel a flash of pain in my leg with each step, but I'm starting to get really worried about the dog. I've been ignoring him for hours, focusing on my work, and now suddenly he seems to have disappeared. I keep thinking back to the sound of that final, pained whimper.

“Bob, are you here?” I call out as I get to the kitchen door. “Bob, are -”

And that's when I see him.

He's on the floor, over by the table, and I can immediately see that his neck has been twisted at an impossible angle.

“Bob!” I shout, pushing through the pain as I hurry over to him. At the last moment, I stumble and fall, landing on my knees, but I quickly crawl toward his motionless body.

His eyes are wide open, but I can already tell that he's dead. There's something not right about his position and, when I start to pick him up, I realize that the bones in his neck have been crushed.

“What the hell?” I whisper, with tears in my eyes as I turn him over. Even though I know it's too late, I still search for any hint of a heartbeat.

Finally, realizing that there's nothing more I can do, I feel a surge of anger in my chest. This time a week ago, I never even thought about wanting a dog. Now there are tears in my eyes as I hold the little guy in my arms.

“What did you do to him?” I shout, looking around the kitchen, convinced that I'll see Charlie lurking somewhere. “What the hell did you do to my dog, you asshole?”

Shaking with rage, I get to my feet, ignoring the pain in my leg as I hobble over to the kitchen table. I grab a cloth and set it down, before gently resting Bob's body on the fabric. For a moment, I can only stare in disbelief at his corpse, but then suddenly I hear a faint bumping sound nearby and I turn just in time to see a hint of a shadow retreating into the corridor.

“Why did you do that?” I shout, stumbling toward the door but tripping, crashing against the counter. Filled with anger, I push a pile of dirty plates off the edge, sending them crashing to the floor. I stumble around the mess and over to the door, stopping to look along the corridor, but the coward is nowhere to be seen.

I wait a moment, but all I hear is the sound of the fire still crackling in the study.

“Where are you?” I yell. “Come and face me, you coward! If you've got a problem with me, Charlie, then take it out on me! Not on a defenseless animal! He never did anything to hurt anyone!”

Again I wait, but again the pathetic asshole refuses to even show his face. Just as I open my mouth to shout at him again, however, I hear footsteps in the study.

“You're despicable!” I hiss, limping over to the doorway, only to find that there's still no sign of him. With only one way in or out of this room, I don't even see how he managed to escape, but suddenly I see that once again my whiskey glass has been refilled.

I turn and glance around, briefly looking at the painting of the bride, before hobbling to the center of the room.

“I hate you,” I stammer, feeling a kind of rage I haven't felt for a long, long time. “I know I did something awful, I know you blame me for it all, but that doesn't mean you get to take it out on somebody else! Bob was just a dog, for God's sake! What kind of monster are you? What -”

Suddenly something bumps against my shoulder. I spin around, but somehow he's managed to hide again.

“Face me!” I shout. “Come on, you goddamn coward, face me and -”

Before I can finish, I'm struck on the side of the face by something hard. As I pull away, my whiskey glass smashes against the wall, and I watch in horror as the pieces of glass drop to the floorboards. Whiskey is dribbling down the wallpaper, but I turn and see that there's no sign of anyone next to the desk. Still, it felt as if someone grabbed the glass from my hand and threw it across the room.

This is impossible.

I limp to the desk, convinced that an explanation has to present itself at some point. There's nowhere for Charlie to hide, but somehow the coward is managing to torment me. Spotting the bottle of whiskey, I see that it's already almost empty, and then I turn and look at my laptop. I've written a lot over the past few days, but none of it matters now that Bob is gone. In fact, I'm starting to feel as if I've become too consumed by my writing. I take a step forward, before tripping and falling forward. When I land against the desk, I accidentally send the laptop sliding off the edge until it clatters to the floor.

I take a moment to steady myself, and then I take a limping step forward. Then, just as I'm about to rescue my laptop from the floor, I glance at the window.

I see my own reflection, but there's somebody else there too. A woman in a bridal gown, her face covered by a veil, is standing right behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Katinka - 1859

“You are so much more beautiful than me,” I whisper, kneeling before the painting and staring up at my own portrait. “In the time since I posed, I have aged so terribly.”

Reaching to touch my own face, I feel the faintest hint of bags under my eyes. There are no bags under my eyes in the painting, so I can only conclude that they have developed recently. I suppose I should not be surprised, not since Mother and Charles and Pippa have given me such headaches, but I feel certain there is something I can do to fix the problem. Some balm or cream, something to make my cheeks glow in time for the wedding. So far, I have used only paraffin, which has left my skin feeling oily. I as quite certain that I need something else.

Running my hands around to the side of my face, I cannot help wondering whether the flesh around my jawline has become a little weak. Sagging, even. My first thought is to take a knife to myself and tuck the flesh tighter, but I quickly realize that the idea is absurd. It is one thing to shave a little skin and meat from one's waist, creating a wound that can easily be covered by one's dress. It is quite another to start performing surgery on one's own features.

I shall have to find some other way of firming up my face. Paraffin alone is not doing the job.

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Mother asks suddenly.

Startled, I turn and find her standing right behind me.

“You were in a world of your own, weren't you?” she continues, with a hint of shock in her eyes. “I was nattering away, peppering you with questions, and you didn't even notice. Instead, you were sitting here in front of this painting, touching your own face.”

“I was merely pondering my wedding,” I reply, feeling a little troubled as I get to my feet. “It's one week from today, Mother. Am I supposed to let myself become distracted?”

“Your sister is dead,” she points out, rather unnecessarily.

“I know. I hope they catch the monster who murdered her.”

She stares at me for a moment, before looking over at the painting.

“That thing ,” she says finally, with a hint of disgust, “cannot hang in here. You can put it in your bedroom, Katinka, but I will not have something so garish and modern hanging on display like this. Why, visitors might see it! What will they think?”

“They will think that I am beautiful.”

“I want it moved immediately!”

“Whatever is the point?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “It'll only be brought right back down next week.”

“It most certainly will not!”

“The house will no longer be yours,” I point out. “Once I am married, Father's property shall become mine, and by extension it shall belong to Charles. All of it. You'll no longer have any say in the matter.”

“This is still my home!”

I stare at her for a moment, seeing the bubbling anger just beneath her surface. Still, I have seen Mother before when she is angry, and her anger is as nothing compared to mine. I must put her in her place, however, since she evidently feels that she has the right to challenge me.

“I was going to let you and Pippa live here after the wedding,” I tell her finally. “I had thought to have an annex constructed. But now that Pippa is gone, I think it might be better for all concerned, Mother, if you find alternative lodgings. Perhaps you can go and live with your spinster sister in Goostrey. There, you would be free to live out your remaining days in whatever manner you see fit. Until the day you die.”

“Are you -”

She pauses, as if she can't quite believe what she's hearing.

“Are you threatening to throw me out of my own home?” she stammers.

“It won't be your home in one week's time,” I reply. “Think, Mother. Be sensible. Do you really think Charles and I shall want to have you knocking around the place? Why, for anybody who values life and beauty, you're a rather off-putting presence.”

“What -” Again, she hesitates. “What is that on your face?” she continues. “Your face is shiny, Katinka. You look ridiculous!”

“It's paraffin, Mother,” I say with a sigh. “Please don't be tedious. Paraffin is well known for soothing wrinkles and improving the complexion. Although since it's so modern, I'm not surprised you haven't heard of the notion.”

“Where in the name of all that's holy did you hear such a foolish idea?”

“It's known by all intelligent young ladies,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I want to look perfect on my wedding day, so I am adding paraffin each day and massaging it into my skin.”

“That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my life,” she mutters dismissively. “Oh Katinka, sometimes you do believe some awful rot. Go and wash that stuff away at once. You're liable to break out in hives.”

“What would you know about beauty?” I ask, stepping past her and heading to the door. “I must go and make other preparations, Mother. I shall head into town.”

Stopping, I turn back to her.

“While I am gone,” I continue, “perhaps you should write a letter to your sister in Goostrey. Tell her you'll be arriving to stay with her after the wedding. Charles and I shall send you a stipend, of course. Nothing immodest, but enough to allow you to live our your remaining years in comfort. And then Ashbyrn House shall be ours, and we shall make the place feel like a home again. I am certain that Father would approve.”

“This painting -”

“Stays!” I hiss. “The painting stays right where it is! I swear, Mother... When I get back from town, that painting will not have been touched. I cannot even begin to express how angry I shall be if I find that you have meddled in my business. I am to be the lady of Ashbyrn House. Not you. And I will not tolerate interference from any other woman. If that painting is ever moved, I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Owen - Today

“Three million, five hundred and sixty thousand,” I mutter under my breath, as I add my latest word count to the tally in my notebook. “Not bad.”

Leaning back in the chair, I take a moment to get my breath back. I've been typing since... I honestly don't know how long ago I started, but the pain in my hands is barely registering at all. My back spits up a flicker of pain, so I grab the bottle of painkillers and tip one out into the palm of my hand. I don't have many pills left now, but I'm sure I'll be fine, so I swallow the pill and then I take a sip of whiskey.

A shudder runs through my chest.

Okay, back to work. My fingers hurt as I place my hands back on the keyboard, but it's not as if I can stop. I blink a few times, trying to get the fluid from my eyes, and it takes a moment before I can see the screen properly. For a moment, everything seems to be flickering slightly, and it takes a few seconds before I'm able to focus properly on the flashing cursor.

And then, just as I'm about to type, I hear someone knocking on the front door.

I hesitate, wondering whether the sound was just in my head, but a moment later I hear it again. Someone is definitely banging on the door, although I have no idea what they could want. I've been meaning to order another month's worth of supplies from the website, but I haven't quite gotten around to placing the order yet, and I've certainly done nothing to encourage a visitor. Staying completely still, I figure that the intruder will give up and leave soon, but a few seconds later I hear footsteps coming closer across the gravel that runs past the side of the house. Finally, worried about being seen, I start to climb under the desk so I can hide, but my back sends a jolt of pain up my spine and I freeze for a moment, barely able to move at all after spending so long in the chair.

Suddenly I see a figure at the window. Wincing, I look over, but it takes a few seconds before I recognize the face.

Oh God. Why did she have to show up?

***

“It's certainly... interesting,” Vanessa says as she steps into the hallway and looks around at the walls. She pauses for a moment, sniffing the air, before turning to me. “What's that smell?”

“I don't smell anything,” I reply, already regretting the fact that I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Owen -”

“What do you want?” I snap.

She stares at me with a hint of shock in her eyes. “What's going on here, Owen?” she asks finally.

“I'm trying to get some work done,” I continue, forcing myself to sound calm even though my leg is throbbing again. “Believe it or not, when I moved to the wilds of Cornwall, it wasn't because I wanted to be interrupted by visitors every five minutes.”

“And how's that going for you?” she asks. “How has your first month gone?”

“Month?” I shake my head. “I've been here a week.”

“It's the eighteenth of November,” she replies.

“Nonsense.”

Taking her phone from her pocket, she holds it up for me to see.

“It's not the...” I start to say, before realizing that I don't want her to think she's got one over on me. “Whatever. The date doesn't matter.”

“You look like hell, Owen.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “You look like -”

I catch myself just in time. To be honest, Vanessa looks as beautiful as ever, and just the sight of her is enough to bring an aching sensation to my chest. I know I can't succumb to those feelings, though, so I pull the door open wider and take a step back. Besides, she's tricking me. There's no way it's November already. Or December. Or whatever month she thinks it is, even though I'm not sure what month I think it is, and anyway my thoughts don't seem to be in quite the right order.

“I'm busy,” I say firmly. “I don't want to seem rude, but I'd like you to leave.”

“It stinks in here.”

“It's an old house.”

“And what's that noise?” She turns and looks along the corridor, before suddenly setting off toward the kitchen.

“Stop!” I yell, hobbling after her despite the pain in my leg. “This is my house and I don't want any disturbances!”

“Oh God!” she stammers as she reaches the kitchen.

“This is my house!” I hiss again, struggling to catch up. “Vanessa, my -”

I stop suddenly, as I see that hundreds of flies are buzzing all around the kitchen table, seemingly attracted by a patch of meat and fur. It takes a moment longer before I realize that I must have left Bob's body out. Still, I'm certain he only died a day or two ago, so it's not possible that he's already rotted away like this.

“There are flies everywhere!” Vanessa points out, waving some away as they try to land on her face. She takes a step back, before turning to me with a shocked expression. “What is that? A dog? A cat?”

“My dog,” I whisper, feeling a fresh flush of sorrow at the realization that Bob is gone. “He... He died.”

“And what's wrong with your leg?”

“Nothing!” I snap defensively. I'm still not quite sure what's been going on here, but I'm starting to think that maybe more time passed while I was writing than I realized.

“You're limping heavily!”

“That's none of your business.”

“There are old food cans everywhere,” she continues, swatting more flies away as she heads past me and stops to look into the study. “Have you been living off tinned food? And whiskey?”

“I ordered a month's supply of food,” I mutter. “I didn't want to have to deal with a delivery man every week. Maybe I worked through the food a little fast, or maybe the first delivery didn't come yet, or...”

I pause, and again I'm momentarily not quite sure what's happening.

“I'm fine,” I continue finally. “Don't worry about me. I'm doing just fine.”

“And you've just been sitting around writing?” She turns to me. “You're living in your own filth, Owen! You stink! The whole house smells awful!”

“I'm fine,” I stammer again, although I'm starting to realize that she might be right.

She stares at me, as if she's never seen anything quite so horrific, and now there are fresh tears in her eyes.

“I came because I need to talk to you,” she says after a moment, “but now I'm here, it's pretty clear that you need help. Owen, I'm going to clean this place up, okay? I'm going to start with the -”

Suddenly there's a loud bump over our heads. Looking up at the ceiling, I realize the sounds came from the room directly above us.

“Is there someone else here?” Vanessa asks.

I shake my head.

“Owen, if -”

“There's no-one,” I mutter, leaning against the wall in case I collapse. I'm starting to sweat again, but hopefully she won't notice. “I just want you to leave. This is my house, and I want to be alone.”

I wait for her to say something, or better yet for her to turn around and walk away, but she seems to be staring at me.

“Have you been talking to him again?” she asks finally.

“Who?”

“You know who.” She pauses. “Have you been talking to Charlie?”

I shake my head.

“You have, Owen. I can tell.”

“Not for... Not for a while,” I stammer.

“But you still blame yourself for his death,” she continues. “Owen, how many times do people have to tell you this? What happened at your bachelor party wasn't your fault. Charlie was an alcoholic, he'd been an alcoholic since long before either of us met him. He'd left the party by the time he went to see those other people, you weren't anywhere near him when he fell off that balcony. His death was the consequence of his own choices.”

“I should have kept an eye on him,” I whisper, easing myself down onto a chair. Suddenly I feel much weaker than before. “I should have looked after him.”

“It was your bachelor party,” she replies. “ He's the one who should have been looking after you for once. Instead, he pulled his usual shit of getting wasted, and he ran off and abandoned you. And this time, he managed to get himself killed.”

She steps closer and then she crouches in front of me, looking up into my face. After a moment, she reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I know you think it helps you to imagine that he's still around,” she says as a tear runs down her cheek, “but in the long-run, you need to find some other way to get over it. When you canceled the wedding, I thought you just needed time, but now I see that the pain goes much deeper. Don't take this the wrong way, Owen, but I think you need serious, professional help. And if you won't get it for yourself, I guess we'll have to try some other approach.”

She pauses, before leaning closer and kissing me on the forehead.

“I'm going to help you,” she whispers. “You're going to get over this. Running away was never the answer.”

“I wasn't running away,” I spit back at her, “I was -”

Suddenly a fresh ripple of pain runs through my leg, and I let out a faint grunt. There's no way she missed that.

“I don't need you here!” I hiss. “Just leave me alone!”

“Owen -”

“I'm fine!”

Even as the words leave my lips, I know she'll never be convinced. And as I take a look around the room, I can't deny that she might have a point. Still, I can sort everything out without her help, so I just need to be smart here and figure out a way to get rid of her as quickly as possible.

“First,” she says after a moment, “I'm going to call an ambulance, because -”

“No!” I say firmly. “Absolutely not!”

“Owen, your leg -”

“Is fine!” I hiss, before realizing that I need to change the topic of conversation. The last thing I want is to see a doctor, since a doctor would take one look at my leg and realize that something's seriously wrong. At least while my leg remains covered and un-examined, I can stay in control of the situation. “Sometimes it helps to pretend that Charlie's around,” I tell her. “It's a coping mechanism. That's what you told me to find, isn't it? A way of going through things in my head?”

“Talking to Charlie all the time doesn't seem healthy.”

I can't help sighing.

“And while you're talking to him,” she continues, “do you always remember that he's a figment of your imagination? Or do you sometimes forget that he's been dead for six months, and instead you think he's really here?”

I want to tell her to leave me alone, but suddenly I turn and look over at the open doorway. I can hear flies still buzzing in the kitchen, and I'm starting to wonder who killed Bob. Until now, in my addled mind I was somehow convinced that it must have been Charlie, but clearly that isn't possible. So who picked my dog up off the floor and broke his neck?

“I really need to call an ambulance for you,” Vanessa continues.

“No.”

“And then I'll help you tidy up.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“And then -”

“I don't want to see a doctor!” I snap. “I'm fine, I just...”

Pausing, I realize I need to let her think she's helping. That'll be the quickest way to get rid of her.

“You can stay,” I stammer finally. “Just for today, just... Just so you can see that I'm okay, and then I want to be alone.”

“But -”

“Look!” I get to my feet, forcing myself to smile even though the pain in my leg is excruciating. I damn near topple over, but somehow I manage to push through the agony and remain standing. “See? There can't be that much wrong with me, can there?”

She seems skeptical, but finally she takes a step back.

“I'm going to clean the kitchen,” she tells me. “After that, I'll get started on the rest of the house, and then I'll go into town and fetch some actual food, okay? If you don't want me calling an ambulance, you have to at least put up with me hanging around until tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I mutter, even though I hate the idea. “But then you have to leave!”

“Wait here,” she adds, heading to the door. “I don't want you to strain yourself too much.”

I wait until she's left the room, and then I ease myself back into the chair. I feel like a goddamn child, but at the same time I can't help recognizing that I might need a little help. It's hard to believe that I spent several weeks sitting here typing, barely stopping at all, and I can only assume that I was going to the kitchen and fetching food. Nothing else makes sense. It's not as if there was anyone here to look after me. The whole period is a complete blur, and I think I even forgot for a while that Charlie wasn't really here.

And then there was the bride.

I have a vague memory of seeing my reflection in the window, and seeing the veiled bride right behind me. That can't have happened, of course, but the image is still strong in my mind. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my composure, and then I get to my feet. Walking slowly and with great pain, I head to the window again and look out, although the bright daylight means I can barely even see my own reflection, let alone the reflection of some ghoul that I might once have imagined standing nearby. Obviously I let the house get to me for a while there, but now I'm back on the right track.

I'm not cracking up. Once Vanessa has left, I'll be fine again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Katinka - 1859

“Keep adding the paraffin,” Mrs. Whitaker says as she slides a jar of congealed yellowish liquid across the pharmacy counter, “but add some of this. It's from the fat of pigs, but I dilute it with gooseberry flesh just to make the effect more subtle. There are some other ingredients, but I'm afraid those are trade secrets. The important thing is that your skin will clear up in no time. Not that you have a problem, mind. You look positively radiant, Ms. Ashbyrn.”

“You're too kind,” I reply, dismayed by the thought of rubbing pig fat on my face. Still, I suppose I must give it a try. “What about the scent? Will it be overwhelming?”

“The gooseberry counters that,” she continues. “Don't worry, I've thought of everything. I wouldn't tell you to use something if I wasn't supremely confident. You're going to look so utterly stunning on your wedding day, Ms. Ashbyrn, that people will never stop talking about your beauty.”

“You flatter me,” I tell her, although I can't hide a faint, blushing smile. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so! Why, look at you? You're the finest beauty for miles around.”

My smile grows.

“And one of the other ingredients in my little concoction,” she continues, leaning toward me as she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial hush, “is none other than -”

Suddenly there's the sound of footsteps coming from the back-room. Mrs. Whitaker hurriedly slips the jar into my basket, just as her husband comes into view. It's well known throughout Turthfeddow that he doesn't approve of his wife offering her own remedies to people who come to the pharmacy, but he tolerates her work so long as she doesn't make too much of a show.

“Ms. Ashbyrn,” he says, offering me a faint nod. “I was truly sorry to hear the news about poor Pippa. You must be in shock.”

“It's tragic, to be sure,” I reply.

“You will convey our condolences to your mother, I trust,” he continues, coming over to join us. “I cannot begin to imagine the heartache of losing a daughter, especially in so violent a manner. And especially in one's own garden, just yards from one's home.”

“Did nobody hear her scream?” Mrs. Whitaker asks.

“Violet!” her husband hisses. “Do not ask such indelicate questions!”

“It's fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Thank you both for your kind thoughts. Pippa was so looking forward to serving as my maid of honor next week, but I am sure she'll be with me in spirit. And even in death, she'll most certainly be happy for me.”

“Are you going ahead with the wedding?” Mr. Whitaker asks, clearly a little shocked.

“I'm sure it's what Pippa would have wanted,” I continue. “Why, I am sure that in her final moments, as that brute was beating her to death, she was hoping that I would now allow the tragedy to spoil my big day.”

I wait for them to tell me that they agree, but to be honest they both appear a little troubled. Staring at me, they seem to not quite understand, although I suppose I should not hold that against them. After all, they're fairly simple, docile folk, like most of this town's inhabitants.

Before I can say another word, however, I hear a general commotion erupting in the town square. Turning, I see several men hurrying past, and a moment later one of them spots me and comes back, pushing the door open and rushing into the pharmacy.

“Ms. Ashbyrn!” he gasps as the bell rings above the door. “It's good that you're here, for there's news! The man who murdered your sister has been apprehended! He's being taken to the gallows right now!”

***

By the time I get to the square, I find that quite a crowd has gathered. Half the town must have turned out to attend this impromptu meeting, and already one of the local men is readying the hanging post that stands outside the tavern.

“Thank the Lord,” a woman mutters next to me. “I was going spare, thinking that some murderous brute was on the loose. At least now we know he's been caught. From what I heard, there was quite a chase, too. He had to be tracked by men on horseback.”

“And is it definitely the killer?” I ask, turning to her.

“Mr. Pollock says there's no doubt,” she continues, glancing at me, “and so -”

She stops as soon as we make eye contact, and it's clear that she had not hitherto realized to whom she was speaking.

“Ms. Ashbyrn,” she stammers, “I...”

“It's quite alright,” I reply calmly. “I accept your undoubted condolences. And you're right. If the venerable Mr. Pollock, our local magistrate, affirms the guilt of this miscreant, there can be no doubt. Evidently the man who murdered my dear sister Pippa has, indeed, been caught. For this, we must all give thinks.”

As the crowd erupts with a series of boos and cries, I turn and see that a scruffy-looking man is being led onto the platform next to the hanging post. It takes a moment, but I finally realize that I've seen this man before. It is the same vagrant I caught in the garden, back when he was stealing mushrooms a few days ago. He looks to be in a worse state now, as if he has been soundly beaten during his capture, and he stumbles slightly before one of the men gives him a shove in the back and sends him slamming into the post. Before the man can even begin to steady himself, a noose is slipped around his neck.

After a moment, I see that he's trembling so hard, his knees are actually knocking together.

“We caught the miscreant stealing apples from the vicarage orchard!” Mr. Pollock announces, as the crowd continues to bay for blood. “There was a boy with him, but the boy ran off before he could be apprehended. Still, no child could be responsible for the heinous murder of Pippa Ashbyrn. Only a man could have done such awful things to her body.”

“Hang him!” a voice calls out.

“Hanging's too easy!” adds another. “He should be burned!”

“Settle down!” Mr. Pollock says firmly. “We could call the proper authorities to town, and let them investigate, but I doubt anybody here wants to wait for justice to be served. There's no doubt whatsoever about this man's guilt, so I propose that we mete out a firm, fair and swift punishment. Does anyone object?”

“Kill him!” a voice shouts.

“Get on with it!” adds another. “Make him bleed first!”

“I didn't kill anyone!” the prisoner sobs, with the noose still around his neck. “Please, you have to believe me! My son and I were merely -”

Before he can get another word out, one of Mr. Pollock's assistants hits the prisoner hard on the back of the head, causing more cheers to immediately erupt from the crowd.

“Weasel words to the last,” Mr. Pollock mutters, before making eye contact with me. He hesitates, as if shocked by my presence. “I see that Ms. Katinka Ashbyrn is here with us,” he continues finally, and now the crowd hushes as faces turn to me. “If she wishes to beg for clemency, and if she wishes us to call the authorities so that a proper trial can be arranged, I shall of course defer.”

Now there is silence around me, as everybody waits for me to speak.

“No,” I say finally. “I think, Mr. Pollock, that you have excellent judgment. You must do as you think is best. I shall leave the matter entirely in your hands.”

“You know I'm innocent!” the prisoner shouts. “You know I was picking mushrooms in your garden, but I left! I left several days ago and I didn't come back! I confess to stealing from you, and from several other houses in the area, but I never laid a finger on any girl! You must realize I'm not the killer!”

I look at him for a moment, staring into his terrified eyes.

“I know no such thing,” I continue finally, before turning to Mr. Pollock. “I defer to your decision. You are, after all, wiser than anyone else here present. Do as you see fit.”

Mr. Pollock nods, before turning to his men. He hesitates, as if for effect, as the crowd continues to agitate for his verdict, and as the prisoner begs for his life.

“Hang the bastard!” he roars finally. “Let's get it over with!”

A cheer erupts from the crowd as the prisoner is dragged, still sobbing and protesting, to the front of the platform. The noose is tightened around his neck as he begins to scream, but suddenly he drops from view behind the heads in front of me, and I see the rope tighten.

A huge roar fills the town square, along with a smattering of applause, and it is clear that the miscreant has been hanged. There is a part of me that wishes to turn and walk away, but at the same time I know I might never again have the chance to witness such a thing at close quarters. I make my way around the edge of the crowd until I reach the hanging post, and there I stop as I see that not only is the prisoner dead, but the pressure of the noose has caused his bloodshot eyes to bulge almost entire from their sockets. And his neck is quite clearly broken. Some men have been pulling on his legs, just to ensure that the job is done, but now they step away.

High above, the hanging post creaks as the body swings gently.

“Served him right,” a woman sneers next to me, before turning and walking away.

The crowd is beginning to leave now, but I stay in place and watch the corpse for a moment longer.

“You don't need to see this,” Mr. Pollock tells me. “Ms. Ashbyrn? Perhaps you should return home. This is not for the eyes of a lady.”

“What will be done with his body?” I ask, still staring at the man's protruding eyeballs.

“Tossed in an unmarked grave,” he explains. “I'm minded to leave him hanging here for a day or two, though. Just as a warning to everyone else.”

I watch the dead man for a moment longer, before turning to Mr. Pollock.

“As you see fit,” I tell him. “There is -”

Before I can finish, I spot a hint of movement in the distance. I turn just in time to see the dead man's son watching proceedings from a nearby alley, although his terrified face slips from view as soon as he realizes that I have noticed him. I open my mouth to call attention to his presence, but I suppose there is no need. So long as he leaves the area and never comes back, I don't see why I should bother too much.

“I am truly sorry,” Mr. Pollock tells me, “that your family has suffered such a devastating trauma. If there is anything that I, or any of my men, can do to help you...”

His voice trails off.

“Thank you,” I say calmly, forcing a smile, “but I rather feel that you have done more than enough. The killer is dead, and the matter is therefore settled. Now if you'll excuse me, I must return home. I still have a great deal of work to do ahead of the wedding.”

With that, I turn and make my way back across the town square. There are still a few stragglers around, and I can tell that they're watching me, but I don't return their gazes. No doubt they are marveling at my beauty and composure, and at my strength of mind. I shall undoubtedly become accustomed to such esteem once I am married to Charles, but for now the feeling is somewhat new.

This is all that I ever wanted. I am respected. And soon, Ashbyrn House shall be revered as the greatest home in the entire county.

Behind me, the hanging post still creaks in the wind.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Owen - Today

“I don't like this place. It feels wrong. Come on, Owen, admit it, you feel it too. Don't you?”

As she continues to make dinner, I limp across the kitchen and stop at the counter. Vanessa has spent the past hour insinuating that somehow Ashbyrn House was a bad purchase, but so far I haven't taken the bait. Now she's becoming less subtle by the moment.

“I don't feel anything about the house,” I mutter, already annoyed by the fact that she's looking after me. “It's just a house. Bricks. Wood. Nothing more.”

“But it has an atmosphere. There's something in the air.”

“The only thing in the air is the smell of your cooking,” I reply, before looking over at the table. Vanessa spent several hours cleaning the place, and Bob's body has long since been hauled out of here. We buried him in the garden earlier, but I can't help thinking back to the poor dog's final moments. Somebody broke his neck, but I was the only one here. And no matter how ravaged I might be right now, I know I would never have hurt the poor animal.

“I think there's been something evil here,” Vanessa continues after a moment.

I turn to her.

“If you weren't so closed-off and obstinate,” she adds, “you'd feel it too. Are you seriously telling me that in all the time you've been here, you haven't noticed any kind of presence?”

I stare at her for a moment, as she continues to stir the pan, and after a few seconds I start to realize that she's trying to steer the conversation to a certain point.

“Who have you been talking to?” I ask finally.

“I'm sorry?”

“About the house. You know something. Or you think you do.”

“I...” She hesitates. “Listen, when I went to town earlier, I got talking to someone at the butcher's, and when I mentioned Ashbyrn House -”

“You've been listening to their superstitious bullshit,” I mutter. “Great. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You were always a sucker for dumb ghost stories.”

“This house kind of has a history, Owen,” she continues. “The bride, the family, the wedding, the bells...”

“The bells are nothing,” I tell her. “Someone's just been pranking me with the bells.”

“You've heard them?”

Damn. It's too late to take that admission back now.

“Someone was tricking me,” I continue. “It only takes one idiot from the village to rig up a sound system, and suddenly bells are ringing out at all times of the day and night.”

“You have heard them!”

I can't help but sigh.

“What about the bride?” she asks. “Have you seen her?”

“Vanessa...”

“Have you seen her, Owen?”

“I'm sure you'd love that,” I mutter under my breath. I don't want to directly lie to Vanessa, but at least I can sidestep her questions where possible.

“The story's so tragic,” she continues, heading over to the cupboard and grabbing some jars. “That Katinka Ashbyrn woman sounds like she was a real psycho. I mean, if even half the stories about her are true, she was out of her mind. And that's before you even take into account the fact that her sister died in such mysterious circumstances, while her mother lost her mind and ended up dying in a sanitarium. Talk about a grand gothic horror story. And you moved right into the middle of it. I know you don't believe in ghosts, Owen, but seriously... How can you stand to be alone here?”

“I wasn't alone,” I reply, feeling another flash of sadness. “I had Bob.”

“Katinka Ashbyrn was insane,” she says, shutting the cupboard door, “and -”

Suddenly the door flies open, slamming against her shoulder with enough force to send her stepping back. At the same time, she drops the jars, sending them smashing to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” she stammers, as the cupboard door slowly swings shut again.

“Maybe the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn doesn't like it when you call her an insane psycho,” I point out, before realizing that Vanessa might actually believe something so stupid. “I don't know,” I add. “There's probably just a faulty spring. Leave it, I'll take a look in the morning.”

I watch as she tests the door a couple of times. She seems unconvinced, but after a moment she gets on with cleaning up the mess on the floor.

“If you're so against the house,” I continue, “maybe you'd prefer to get a room at the pub in town. Please don't feel you need to stay here for my benefit.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I'm staying.”

“I'm fine!”

“Do you want to let me take a look at that leg, then?”

I hesitate, before realizing that if she actually saw the extent of the damage, she'd insist on calling an ambulance.

“I'll make up a room for you,” I tell her. “Just for one night, though. Tomorrow, I have to get back to work. And I'm sure there are things you need to be doing in London.”

She heads back over to the pan and gives the vegetables a stir.

“You know,” she says after a moment, “I never got a refund for the cakes we ordered for the wedding. Do you have any idea how many cakes I had to give away to our friends? After a while, I think people were actually dreading bumping into me, in case I foisted another cake on them. It was getting so bad, I even -”

“I don't need to know that,” I say firmly, interrupting her.

“Sorry.”

“The wedding is in the past,” I continue. “It didn't happen.”

“I know.”

“So there's no point talking about it.”

She sires the sauce for a moment.

“The cakes happened,” she says finally. “The invitations happened. The playlists happened. The -”

“I get it!” I mutter, not wanting to be reminded. “It was close, but...”

My voice trails off. I still remember the tears in her eyes when I told her the wedding was off. Two days before we were due to be married, I canceled everything. I was still in shock because of what had happened to Charlie, and the last thing I wanted was to drag Vanessa down with me. I thought she'd be better off finding someone else, and I still think that. She just needs to stay away from me for a while first.

“We had a lucky escape,” I add, forcing a smile that I really don't feel. “If we'd tied the knot, it would've been a disaster.”

This time, she doesn't reply. She simply continues to stir the vegetables, before putting the noodles on to boil. Whereas she's barely stopped chattering so far today, now she seems a little subdued, almost as if talking about the abandoned wedding has upset her a little. My instinct is to go over and hug her, to tell her everything will be okay, but I force myself to stay right where I am. The last thing I can afford is to let old feelings bubble back up to the surface. Breaking up with her was hard enough the first time, and I don't want to have to do it all over again.

“So you never struck me as the type to get a dog,” she says finally, as she starts dishing up the stir-fry. “What happened there?”

“I sort of picked him up along the way.”

“I'm sorry he died.”

“Me too.”

“If you don't mind the question... What happened to him?”

“It's complicated.”

“But -”

“And I'd rather not talk about it,” I add. “He was here, and now he's not, and it's sad but life goes on.” I pause for a moment. “Thank you for helping me bury him, though. You were right, that was the decent thing to do. He was a good dog, even if he was always barking at thin air around this place.”

“He was?”

“Not that it means anything,” I continue, watching as she carries our plates to the table. Turning, I hobble over to join her. “The dog was just jumpy. That's all. I don't really know much about his life before he came here, maybe he wasn't right in the head.”

Even as those words leave my lips, however, I know that I shouldn't have said them. There was nothing wrong with Bob. He was a good dog, and he was loyal to me, and I miss him. He just reacted to something in the house, and I'm starting to think that maybe I should have paid more attention. In fact, as Vanessa sets the plates down, I suddenly become aware of a figure standing in the doorway, watching us. I watch Vanessa for a moment longer, before turning to look directly at the figure.

It's gone.

It was there a moment ago, standing in the shadows, but it's gone now. If -

“Owen?”

I turn and see that Vanessa is waiting for me.

“Hungry?”

Once I've sat down, I look across the table and see Vanessa on the other side. For a moment we're both speechless, as if neither of us can quite believe that we're back in this situation. We must have eaten thousands of meals together over the years, but those days were supposed to be long behind us. After the accident that killed Charlie, I canceled the wedding and pushed her away, and eventually I ended our engagement entirely. Frankly, I thought I'd never even be able to see her again, and now here we are eating dinner together.

We used to joke about this. About being a married couple. Man and wife. Together.

“I hope you like it,” she says nervously. “It's just thrown together, really.”

“I'm sure it's great,” I mutter, picking up my knife and fork even though I don't have much of an appetite. I glance at the doorway, but the figure hasn't returned.

“I bought a lot of supplies,” she adds. “For once I'm gone, I mean. Just in case you...”

Her voice trails off.

“That's very kind of you,” I reply, before eating a mouthful of the stir-fry. “This is really good. I'll give you some money for the shopping you did.”

“There's no need.”

“I'd rather.”

She pauses. “Okay. Whatever.”

The awkwardness persists as we continue to eat. I don't know what worries me more: the idea that Vanessa might think this is some kind of reconciliation, or the idea that I might think the same thing. I know I just have to focus on staying strong, and on sticking to my plan to be alone. Vanessa's presence tonight is an extra temptation, but I know I can beat that temptation if I just focus on my original goal. I'm not good with people, I'm better off alone. When people are around me, they get hurt. I'm not just making this decision for my own sake. I'm making it for Vanessa's, too. She'll be better off, and happier, without me.

Still, I can't help glancing at the doorway every few minutes. I can't see the figure, but I feel as if we're being watched. I turn and look back toward the far side of the kitchen, but there's still no sign of anyone. There's a presence, though, and finally I look at the windows, half expecting to see the reflection of a dark and twisted face.

A face wearing a veil...

Suddenly Vanessa lets out a gasp of pain.

Looking across the table, I see she's got a hand to her mouth, and a moment later she spits out a glistening, bloody piece of glass.

“Are you okay?” I ask, getting to my feet and hobbling over to her.

She mumbles something as she hurries to the sink, where more blood starts dribbling from her mouth and splattering against the plughole.

“What the hell was glass doing in your food?” I ask.

“It cut my gum!” she splutters, as I hand her some kitchen roll. She wipes her lips, but fresh blood is running freely and I watch as she holds up the shard that caused the damage. “At least I didn't swallow any of it.”

She continues to dab at her mouth, as I turn and limp back to the table. Sure enough, there are several more glass pieces in her food, far more than could have been caused by a simple accident.

After a moment, I turn and look along the corridor. The door to the study is open, and I can see the painting of the bride reflected in the window.

***

“I'm sorry it's not the Ritz,” I mutter, stepping back from the bed I've made up for Vanessa in one of the spare rooms. “I wasn't exactly expecting visitors.” I pause for a moment, before turning to her. “Ever.”

She offers a faint smile, as she continues to dab at her damaged gum.

“You have some blood on your chin,” I tell her.

She tries to wipe it away, but she misses.

“A little further down,” I add.

Again, she doesn't quite get the right spot.

“Here.” I take the piece of tissue paper and wipe the blood for her.

“Thanks,” she replies as I hand the paper back to her. “It's not hurting so much now.”

This feels so wrong. I want to kiss her, to tell her that I made a terrible mistake and that we have to try again, but I know I can't do any of those things. Instead, I have to leave her here to sleep in this bare, drafty room while I go to sleep in a room at the far end of the corridor. And in the morning, I have to wave her off and hope she never comes back.

“You should sleep okay in here,” I continue, feeling awkward but not really knowing what else to say. I turn and look into the room, and I can't help feeling that it's wholly inadequate. Still, it's only for one night. “There's an extra blanket on the chair, in case you get cold.”

“Owen -”

“And you've got your own bathroom. Down the corridor, at the far end.”

“Owen, I want you to come with me tomorrow.”

I hesitate, shocked by her suggestion but also – for a fraction of a second – imagining what it would be like if I gave in and went back to London with her. Back to my old life.

“I can't drive away and leave you here,” she continues. “I know you won't admit it, but deep down you have to realize that there's something in this house. Do you even know the story of Katinka Ashbyrn, or have you really put your head in the sand and refused to learn about your own home?”

“There's nothing here,” I tell her.

“Then who put the glass in my food?”

“No-one put it there. There must have been an accident.”

“And who killed your dog?”

I want to tell her that she's wrong, but Bob's death is still on my mind and I can't help thinking back to the sound of him whimpering. He didn't break his own neck, and I feel as if he spent his final hours trying to guard me against something that was drawing closer and closer.

“You loved him, didn't you?” she asks, with tears in her eyes.

“He was just a dog.”

“But you loved him.”

I hesitate for a moment, before heading to the door. It feels so strange to be leaving Vanessa alone at night, after we spent so long living together and planning our wedding, but I know it would be a terrible mistake if I gave in to my baser urges. That period of my life is over now, and this is probably the last time I'll ever see Vanessa. Turning to her, I can't help but notice that she looks lost, as if she won't know what to do once I shut the door.

“Even if you don't want to try to make things work between us,” she continues, “will you at least come back to London with me? Just as a friend? I can't leave you here.”

“Goodnight,” I tell her, pulling the door closed and then limping along the corridor.

There.

I did it.

I held firm.

Now I just have to get through tomorrow morning, and she'll be out of here for good.

When I get to my room, however, I pause for a moment as I realize that I'm not remotely tired. Besides, the bed looks so empty without Bob curled at the bottom, and I think maybe I could do with typing a few more words before I try to sleep. Trying to keep from making much noise, I head to the stairs and start limping down to the hallway.

The boards creak beneath my feet, but otherwise the house is completely quiet. I'm just going to work for a half hour or so. Just to tire myself out.

Chapter Thirty

Katinka - 1859

“Where is it, you foolish whore?” I scream, grabbing Mother by the collar and starting to haul her off the floor, only to slam her back down. She's lucky I don't break her infernal neck. “What did you do with my painting!”

She gasps and splutters, but she seems too shocked to speak. Her face is red and her eyes are wide with horror, and her general air of pathetic defeat is utterly infuriating. She doesn't even try to defend herself, or to argue against me. It's truly hard to believe that I, a strong and firm-minded woman, could have grown in the womb of such a weak sack of flesh. I am most certainly more my father's daughter, than my mother's.

I take a step back, resolving to let her regather her composure so she can reply to me, but suddenly a fresh wave of anger surges through my chest. I am breathless, but also furious. I have held back for so long, I have shown greater patience than any other woman could possibly muster, but this horrible old woman has pushed me too far.

“Where is it?” I shout, reaching for her neck again.

She flinches and lets out a terrified whimper, but I force her against the wall and then I crouch down, leaning closer to her sobbing face. After a moment she raises her hands, as if to hide behind them. Pathetic. She could at least fight back.

“This is the last time I shall deign to ask you,” I say firmly. “Think carefully before you answer. Where is the painting?”

“Katinka -”

“Where is it?” I scream.

“Don't hurt me!” she sobs. “Please, Katinka...”

“I told you to leave it in this room!” I sneer, tilting my head a little as tears stream down her face. “I warned you, and you disobeyed me! Now you will tell me what you have done with it!”

I wait for an answer, but none is forthcoming.

“Now!” I scream, leaning closer.

“It's in the outhouse,” she gurgles. “Katinka, please, I am your mother! You cannot treat me this way!”

“I can treat you however I wish, in my own home,” I continue. “You should be thankful that I have such restraint, otherwise I would administer such a beating to you, one from which you might never recover!” I pause for a moment, recognizing the weakness of her whimpering sobs. “How did you even get the painting to the outhouse, anyway?” I ask. “You're a pathetic sack of meat and bones, you couldn't carry that painting more than a few feet. Who helped you?”

Hearing a faint bump nearby, I turn and look toward the doorway, where Charles is standing.

“I thought you'd left!” I hiss.

“I came back for my hat,” he replies, his eyes wide with shock. “Katinka...”

His voice trails off.

I pause for a moment, before getting to my feet. I give my sobbing mother one final kick, enough to elicit a final cry of fear, and then I straighten my dress as I make my way back over to my fiance. Mother is whimpering behind me, but she is no longer worthy of my attention.

“You must forgive me,” I tell Charles, “but she tries my patience most terribly. I shall be glad when she has gone to Goostrey, and it will be just you and I alone here at Ashbyrn House. Just the two of us.”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice trembling with fear, “that does sound... marvelous. But...”

“But what?” I ask. “Charles, I have a great many things to do today, and I simply cannot stand here talking about inconsequential matters. In fact, I -”

Suddenly Mother lets out another pained sob.

“Quiet!” I hiss, turning to her, before glancing back at Charles. “Ignore her,” I tell him. “She only wants attention.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, his bottom lip flaps slightly, reminding me rather of a guppy.

“What do you want , man?” I continue. “This quarrel between Mother and I need not concern you. If you have found your hat, perhaps you should be on your way, and we shall not see one another until our wedding on Saturday. Do you not have any business left away from Ashbyrn House? Nothing to which you must attend?”

“Of course,” he replies, “but...”

He looks past me for a moment, toward Mother's sobbing form on the floor.

“Don't worry about her,” I say with a sigh. “She will be gone after the wedding. And did you hear? Pippa's murderer was caught and marched straight to the hanging post in town, so even that matter has been dealt with. My most pressing concern now is my dress, which is almost perfect. You want me to make you proud on the big day, do you not? Charles, I shall be the most wonderful bride any man ever saw. Of that, you can be assured.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding him back. There's fear in his eyes, but there's also something new, something I'm not sure I've noticed in him before.

Doubt.

“Marry me and you get Ashbyrn House,” I remind him. “Well, you get to share it, at least. Fail to marry me, and you shall fall into poverty. Would you like to end up behind bars, Charles? You have a great deal of debt. You have need of a wife who possesses a fortune, and I have need of a fine and respectable-looking husband. I am upholding my end of that deal. Please, promise me you will uphold yours.”

Again, I wait for a reply, and again he seems uncertain.

“I should remind you,” I add, “that I take a very dim view of people who back out of agreements. Very dim indeed.”

“Of course,” he stammers, and it is clear that he understands the truth. He has no choice but to marry me. “You have my word.”

“Then see to it,” I continue, adjusting his collar slightly, “that you look the part on Saturday. We have many guests coming, and it would be a terrible shame if the wedding were to appear in any way imperfect. Don't let the side down, Charles.”

“Of course not.”

He offers a faint smile, before mumbling something about attending to business, and finally he hurries along the corridor.

“And Charles!” I call after him.

He turns to me.

“Do not fret,” I continue, “if you are overcome by a sense of your own inadequacy. That is something that I shall work on, once we are married. By hook or by crook, I shall make you a better man.”

“Of course,” he stammers, and then he hurries away.

Stepping over to the window, I watch as he heads out of the house. He's clutching his hat, and there's a hint of fear in his eyes, but I know that he'll be back on Saturday for the wedding. Given his precarious financial situation, he has no choice, and the man's stupidity has limits. And then I shall, indeed, begin to mold him and turn him into a satisfactory husband. He definitely has potential.

Behind me, Mother is still weeping on the floor.

“Oh, stop that awful noise,” I mutter, still watching Charles as he heads to the gate. “You bore me, Mother. I honestly don't know what Father saw in you.”

I turn to her.

“I shall be a better wife to Charles than you ever were to Father,” I add, allowing myself a faint smile. “But first, I shall be the perfect bride. And if anybody tries to stand in my way again, I shall deal with them accordingly.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Owen - Today

“No!” Vanessa screams suddenly. “Stop! Owen, help!”

Sitting up suddenly, I realize I must have fallen asleep at my laptop. I can hear someone bumping against the wall in one of the upstairs rooms, but it takes a couple more seconds before my sleep-addled mind clears and I remember that Vanessa is here.

“Owen!” she shouts. “Help me!”

Getting to my feet, I hobble out of the room and over to the stairs. I have no idea what's going on up on the next floor, but it sounds as if Vanessa is throwing herself around the bedroom. Despite the pain in my leg, I limp up to the landing and then along to her door, only to find that it's locked. I try the handle a couple more times, before realizing that I didn't even give Vanessa a key. There's no way she could have locked herself inside.

“What's wrong?” I shout, as I hear what sounds like a struggle on the other side. “Vanessa?”

“Help me!” she screams. “Owen, please!”

I try the door again, but still it won't budge.

“Open the door!” I yell.

“Help!”

Realizing that something must be very wrong, I take a step back and then I throw myself shoulder-first at the door. To my surprise, I manage to break through at the first attempt, although I'm unable to keep myself from crashing to the floor. I let out a cry of pain as I land on my damaged left leg, but I quickly sit up and look over to the bed, where Vanessa is shivering with her back against the wall.

“What is it?” I stammer, crawling toward her and then slowly, painfully, getting to my feet. “What's wrong?”

“She was here,” she gasps, with tears streaming down her face. Her terrified eyes dart around the room, as if she expects to see someone at any moment. “Owen, she was right here!”

“Who?” I ask, turning but seeing no-one.

“Who do you think?” she sobs. “I saw her! I woke up and I saw her silhouetted against the window! She was looking out at the garden, but the moonlight was...”

She hesitates, as if the memory is too horrific. After a moment, she reaches up and touches her fingertips against her face.

“I saw her,” she whispers. “And then she... Owen, she turned to look straight at me.”

Limping over to the bed, I sit next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I think maybe you had a nightmare,” I explain. “I know these things can seem very vivid, but you have to stay rational here, Vanessa. You just -”

“It wasn't a nightmare!” she spits back at me, before looking past me toward the window and pointing. “She was right there!”

I look over my shoulder, but all I see is the window with a patch of moonlight cast across the floor.

“She was standing there,” Vanessa sobs, “and then she looked this way, and then she turned and stepped toward me. She was holding flowers in her hands, and she had the veil over her face, but she walked to the bed and then she made her way around and...”

Again, her voice trails off as she looks past me, as if she's remembering the sight of the bride walking past the bed. I've never seen Vanessa in such a terrible state before, but her whole body seems to be trembling and fresh tears are rolling down her face.

“You have to believe me,” she continues, reaching forward and clutching me in a strong hug. “Owen, I saw her! I saw Katinka Ashbyrn!”

“I'm sure you think you saw her,” I reply cautiously, “but there really can't have been anybody in here. The door was locked, and I don't even know how you managed to do that. I don't have keys for any of the doors up here!”

“She hates me,” Vanessa whispers.

I can't help sighing. “You don't -”

“She put glass in my food,” she stammers, pulling back until I can see her tear-filled eyes again, “and then she came to my room! Don't you get it? It was her! I don't know why, but I think she hates me! I think...”

She pauses, staring at me with a growing sense of realization.

“It's because of you,” she adds finally.

“I'm sorry?”

“Katinka Ashbyrn was a jealous, vindictive woman,” she continues. “That's what I heard, anyway. I think she hates me because she sees me as a rival for...”

Again, her voice trails off. She seems genuinely shocked by some realization.

“Right,” I say cautiously, starting to understand where she's coming from. “So you think there's a ghost here, and she's fallen in love with me, and now she's jealous because you showed up?”

“You don't know the story of Katinka Ashbyrn,” she stammers. “I do! I heard about it when I was in the town earlier. The woman was insane, she was driven by this need to find a man and have the perfect life together. I don't think it even mattered which man, just so long as she got what she wanted. I'm sure you're more than enough for her.”

“I'm sure even the most deluded soul would understand,” I reply, “that being dead is something of a disadvantage when it comes to social climbing.”

“We're getting out of here,” she continues, scrambling to get dressed. “I know you, Owen. You're obstinate and you don't change your mind easily, but you can see reason! You might have refused to learn about the history of Ashbyrn House, but -”

“I refused because I don't want to fall into this paranoid trap!” I hiss.

“And what about now?” she asks. “Why are you refusing now?”

“Because it's nonsense!”

“It's because you're scared!” she shouts. “I can see it in your eyes! You know there's something here, you've seen it, but you're still hiding behind this insistence that there can't possibly be anything hiding in the shadows! Deep down, you know that the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn is still in this house, but you just can't bring yourself to face the truth!”

She turns to me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.

“You're so worried about seeing ghosts when they aren't there,” she adds, “that you can't even see when one's really in the house with you.”

I open my mouth to tell her that she's wrong, but she quickly pushes past me, hurrying out onto the landing.

“It's midnight!” I call after her. “You can't drive away at midnight!”

“You're coming with me!”

Sighing, I head over to the doorway. Looking out to the landing, I see Vanessa hurrying toward the top of the stairs.

“This is my home!” I shout. “Why can't you just accept that I've moved on?”

“There's a monster here!” she yells, turning back to me. “Katinka Ashbyrn was an evil, jealous bitch when she was alive, and she's still an -”

Before she can finish, a scream fills the air. Horrified, I watch as a blurred figure rushes toward Vanessa and shoves her back, sending her toppling down the stairs until she falls from view. A moment later, I hear a crashing sound down below as she slams against the hallway floor, and at the same time the ghostly bride turns to look directly at me before finally fading into thin air.

“Vanessa?” I stammer, too shocked to move before finally I start hobbling forward. “Vanessa, say something! Vanessa!”

I stay well clear of the spot where the bride was standing. I keep telling myself that she wasn't really there, but my heart is pounding and I think I might be way past the point of denial.

“Vanessa!” I shout. “Are you okay?”

As soon as I get to the top of the stairs, I see why Vanessa hasn't replied. Her crumpled body is down in the hallway, with her head twisted at an ungodly angle. I open my mouth to call out to her, but suddenly I hear a faint gasping sound over my shoulder. Just as I'm about to turn, I feel something slithering against my shoulders, and I look down to see two pale arms wrapping themselves around me from behind. Bony hands press against my chest, as if I'm being hugged. And then, finally, I hear an old, hungry voice whispering in my left ear.

“Mine.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Katinka - 1859

“Mine. All mine.”

I cannot help but smile as those words leave my lips. This time tomorrow, Charles shall indeed be mine, and I shall be his. My lifelong ambition to become a wife will finally be complete, and I feel certain that Father is watching down upon me with great pride. He must have seen the terrible ordeals to which I have been subjected, and he must understand that I have done my best against the prevailing current. I have been surrounded by fools, yet I have stuck to my guns and I have won.

“Mine,” I whisper again, savoring that word.

Charles might have his rough edges, he might require a great deal of work, but he is at least the basis for a good man. A wife has many jobs, and one of them is to take what she marries and mold it, to improve it, and I feel absolutely certain that Charles – with my help, of course – will eventually become a fine and upstanding figure in the local community. People will admire him, just as they once admired Father.

Well, almost.

No man can ever be quite as fine as Father. I still remember how I used to hide just outside the door to his study, and how I used to peer around the edge and watch him as he worked. Father always looked like a great man, but never more so than when he was at his desk. I am no great believer in the need to analyze one's own mind, but I am sure that Father is the reason why I so esteem a man who writes. Why, any time I see a man at a desk, I always feel a faint stirring in my heart.

Charles never sits at a desk.

Perhaps he shall, in time. Especially after I offer Father's desk to him as a wedding gift. Perhaps he'll take to writing at the desk, the way Father wrote there. And if he does not, I shall train him to sit there anyway. Even now, I feel a shudder pass through my chest at the mere thought, and for a few seconds I lose myself in a kind of waking dream. I see Charles at Father's desk, and I see him writing something dreadfully important, and I don't even realize at first that I have begun to grin like an absolute fool. A moment later, a tear even rolls down my cheek.

My bible rests next to me. The bible Father gave me all those years ago. The bible that will be used for my wedding, just as I have always dreamed.

Forcing myself to focus on the task at hand, I dip my fingers into the glass jar that rests on my dresser, and I get back to the job of applying my beauty regimen. The paraffin makes my face feel so soft and gentle, but I must admit that I'm not yet fully enthused about Mrs. Whitaker's fat-and-gooseberry concoction. As I sit at my bedroom mirror, I see no real improvement to my complexion. If anything, I look rather pale and waxy, but I suppose I must give it a few more tries. The wedding is tomorrow, and I feel certain that I shall look radiant.

Once the various lotions and potions have been applied, I get to my feet and head over to the mirror. I hesitate for a moment, before untying my corset and letting it slip away. I instantly flinch as I see the thick, bloodied wounds on either side of my waist, and it is clear that I have not healed as rapidly as I might have hoped. The wounds are red and pink, with pockets of yellow, and I fear that they might leave scars. Still, who sees a woman's naked body? Nobody but herself. Even Charles will have to make do with his imagination.

And I shall never kill again.

Looking down at my shaking hands, I feel immensely proud of myself for holding back with Mother. She was so infuriating, so utterly awful, that I was sorely tempted to bash her head open against the fireplace. And yet I composed myself and refused to yield to my darker desires, and Mother still draws breath. I am not a murderer. What I did to Pippa was a dreadful shame, but it was also very necessary and everybody has their breaking point. Still, I shall hurt no-one else, not now. I am a better person than that, by far.

I take a set of bandages from the dresser and start wrapping them around my waist. Nearby, my wedding gown waits for tomorrow, with its perfect white veil resting on one of the shoulders. All that's left is for me to sew weights into the hem, so that the gown hangs properly in case of a breeze, and then I'll be ready.

Tomorrow the bells of the church shall ring out, and I shall finally be married.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Owen - Today

“Vanessa!” I shout, clattering down the stairs with no regard for the pain in my left leg. “Say something!”

I drop to my knees next to her. Now that I'm closer, I can see that her neck isn't as badly twisted as I'd feared, and her eyes are shut. Reaching down, I gently nudge her shoulder, and then I press two fingers just below her jaw, trying desperately to find a pulse.

She's alive.

Barely, but she's definitely alive.

“Vanessa!” I hiss, pushing her shoulder again. “Wake up! We have to -”

Before I can finish, I become aware of a hint of movement nearby. I turn and look up the stairs, and to my horror I see that the veiled bride is slowly making her way down toward us. Her white dress appears almost blue in the moonlight, and she's too clear and distinct for me to fool myself. She's real.

“This isn't possible,” I stammer, but she's still coming and finally I realize that I can't just sit here and wait for her to arrive.

I look down at Vanessa's unconscious face.

“You have to wake up!” I tell her, even as I hear the stairs creaking next to me. “Vanessa, please! You were right, we have to get out of here!”

She starts to stir, but she's clearly still groggy. Looking up the stairs, I see that the bride is now halfway down, and for a moment I can only stare at her veil. There's a hint of something under there, of a face staring back at me, but I quickly realize that I have to get Vanessa to safety. Since she clearly can't walk, and since I can't exactly carry her with a damaged leg, I get to my feet and grab her arms, and then I start dragging her through to the study.

Even this is almost too much, but I push through the pain and finally I collapse as soon as I've got her into the next room. Reaching past her, I slam the door shut just as the bride reaches the bottom of the stairs. At the very last moment, just as the door swings shut, I see her turn to look at me. Just before the door blocks my view, I'm able to see an outline of her features beneath the veil, silhouetted against the light from the dining room.

That wasn't a normal human face.

It was more skeletal.

“Vanessa!” I shout, shaking her again, desperately hoping to wake her. “We really need to get out of here! You were right! I'm sorry I didn't believe you, but you were right about this place!”

She mumbles something under her breath, before slowly turning and opening her eyes.

“Can you hear me?” I ask. “The bride is -”

Suddenly I hear the door-handle being turned. I lunge forward, holding the door shut as the handle rattles a few times, but I know this won't hold the bride for long.

“What happened?” Vanessa whispers, propping herself up on her elbows. “Owen...”

“She tried to kill you again,” I stammer, as I realize I can hear a faint, guttural growl coming from the other side of the door. “You were right the whole time! Katinka Ashbyrn is -”

“Move!” Vanessa yells, suddenly grabbing me and pulling me away from the door.

Turning to look back, I'm shocked to see the bride stepping through the wood. The veil is still covering her face, but now she's close enough for me to see the dark hollows of her eyes.

“The window!” Vanessa stammers, getting to her feet and pulling me past the desk. She struggles for a moment to slide the window up, but finally she gets it open. “Owen, we have to get out of here!”

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the bride as she steps past the painting. Finally, however, I turn and start helping Vanessa out through the window.

“You have to go first!” she hisses.

“Are you insane?” I reply, pushing her halfway out. “You're the one she sees as a threat.”

As soon as she's on the other side, I start clambering through the window. I hear a hissing sound behind me, and I turn to see the bride reaching to me with her left hand. Startled, I fall back and crash down into the bushes beneath the window, and Vanessa quickly helps me up. Still, even though she starts pulling me away, I can't help standing and staring at the window as the bride comes closer and closer.

“Is it really her?” I whisper. “You see her too, right?”

“Move!” Vanessa yells, pulling me away. She's limping, and the fall clearly hurt her, but I guess like me she's pushing through the pain as she starts dragging me around toward the front of the house. “We're going to go to the nearest town and then we can figure out what to do next, but I promise you one thing. We're never, ever going back inside that place!”

Hobbling along next to her, I glance over my shoulder, but now there's no sign of the bride. Deep down, I know it's unlikely that she's simply given up, but for now at least she's nowhere to be seen.

“Wait!” Vanessa says suddenly as we reach the corner. She turns to me. “Did you bring my keys?”

“Your keys?”

“For the car, dummy! They were on the kitchen counter!”

I shake my head. “I didn't even think.”

She looks toward the front door.

“We can't go back in there for them,” I tell her, looking through the nearest window and seeing the empty kitchen. “Come on, you can't be serious! You know she's still in there somewhere.”

She hesitates, before turning back to me. “The kitchen's right here, and the counter's by the window. If it's not locked and we can slide it open, I can reach in for the keys!”

“But that's -”

“I'm gonna give it a try,” she continues, stepping past me and heading to the window. She pauses for a moment, peering inside to double-check the brightly-lit room, and then she starts jiggling the window in an attempt to make it slide up.

After a moment, against all the odds, she succeeds.

“I'd rather drive away than walk along those dark country roads,” she tells me, reaching to lean inside. “There's no -”

Suddenly the bride screams, appearing from thin air inside the kitchen and lunging at Vanessa. I pull her back at the last moment, and the bride has already vanished by the time we thump down against the gravel.

“I think that plan's gone south,” I point out, helping her up. “Maybe she's stuck in the house. Maybe she can't actually leave Ashbyrn House.”

“This way!” Vanessa gasps, grabbing my arm and leading me across the lawn. We're both limping, which means we can't move too fast, but at least we're getting away from the house.

In fact, I'm starting to think that maybe the bride really is confined to the house. As we make our way past the pond, heading in the direction of the main gate in the distance, I glance over my shoulder to double-check that there's absolutely no sign of the bride coming after us.

“I see her!” Vanessa hisses, stopping suddenly.

Turning, I see to my horror that the bride is ahead of us on the lawn, calmly stepping closer through the moonlight.

“This way!” I shout, pulling Vanessa around the other side of the fountain and toward the house's back garden. There's a wall at the far end, and I figure we can climb over and reach the main road, and then we can make our way into town.

Suddenly I see the bride again, stepping toward us through the darkness.

“She's going to cut us off,” I stammer. “Whichever way we go, she'll always be there. I think she's trying to drive us back into the house.”

“Why would she do that?” Vanessa asks. “She just drove us out of there!”

“Then what does she want?” I reply, trying not to panic. “If she only -”

Before I can finish, a bell rings through the midnight air. Vanessa and I both turn and look toward the trees, and sure enough the ruined church is picked out in a sliver of moonlight. The bell rings again, sounding louder and crisper, and a moment later I turn and see a hint of shock in Vanessa's eyes.

“There's a story,” I start to tell her, “about -”

“A bell that rings every night,” she replies. “Yeah, I know about that.”

Turning, I see that the bride is no longer on the lawn. I look around, but she seems to have vanished entirely, although I have no doubt that she'll appear again if we dare to go the wrong way.

“What does she want with me?” I whisper.

“I don't think we have any choice,” Vanessa mutters, turning and looking toward the church. “I think we're going to have to find out. And whatever it is, I think she wants us to go to the church.”

We start making our way across the lawn, heading cautiously toward the line of trees that stands between us and the church. I desperately want to stop and go to the gate, but I know the bride will appear if I dare. Even now, glancing over my shoulder, I feel certain that she must be watching us from somewhere. Either that, or she's already waiting for us at the ruined church.

“You know,” Vanessa says after a moment, “this is where Katinka Ashbyrn was going to get married. Right here, in the house's grounds.”

“No kidding.”

“And she died right there,” she adds, looking back toward the pond. “She drowned.”

I follow her gaze. Just as I slow my pace, however, I spot a faint figure standing on the pond's far side, and I realize that it's the bride still watching us. She looks barely real, shimmering in the moonlight.

“Maybe we can make a run for it,” I whisper, turning back to Vanessa as we reach the trees and make our way around the far end. Seeing the ruined church ahead, I feel a shiver pass through my chest. “This is insane. We're doing exactly what she wants.”

“We don't have a choice!”

“Of course we have a choice,” I reply, stopping and looking around, trying to think of the quickest route to the boundaries of the property. If we can get off the estate, perhaps we'll be free. “That way!” I add, looking toward the trees on the far side of the clearing. “There's another wall. We just have to climb over.”

“I don't think that'll work, Owen!”

“We have to try!”

Gripping her hand, I start leading her away from the church and over toward the trees. My heart is pounding, but so far there's no sign of the bride and I'm starting to feel a faint flicker of hope that we might actually manage to get away. In fact, deep down, I'm already convinced that once we're away from this madness, we'll figure out a perfectly rational explanation for everything that's been happening tonight. There's no ghost. Ghosts don't exist. Any supposed ghost is just a figment of our imagination, and -

Suddenly there's another scream, and the bride lunges at us from the shadows between the trees.

Startled, I pull Vanessa back, but the bride has already faded into the air.

“I think she's made her point,” Vanessa says firmly, turning and leading me toward the remains of the church. “We don't have any choice. She wants us to go to the church, Owen, so that's what we're doing.”

Realizing that there's no point arguing with her, I follow as she heads down the grassy verge. Finally we reach the ruins of an old stone wall, and we step into what must have once been part of the church. The wrecked tower rises high above us into the night sky, and the whole scene is bathed in a glow of calm moonlight.

“I don't see her,” I whisper.

“She wants something,” Vanessa replies. “We just have to figure out what. Maybe then she'll be at peace.”

“I guess she can't just tell us,” I point out. “That'd be too easy.”

“If the bell-tower was over there,” she continues, “then that part at the far end must have been where the altar stood.”

She leads me that way, and we both have to limp as we pick our way between the crumbling stone piles.

I can't help looking over my shoulder, just in case there's any sign of the bride, but she seems to be leaving us alone so long as we stay within the confines of the ruined church. The bell hasn't rung for a few minutes now, which seems odd since once it starts it usually rings several times in a row. Glancing around, I can't even begin to imagine what the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn could want us to do here, but finally we stop at the far end of the ruins.

“Here,” Vanessa mutters. “The altar must have -”

She stops suddenly, before crouching down as if she's spotted something on the ground.

“What is it?” I ask.

She reaches under one of the stones, and after a moment she pulls out a battered old book.

“A bible,” she whispers, holding it up so I can see the cover in a patch of moonlight. “It'd old. Really old.”

She opens it to the first page, where there's a patch of faded handwriting.

“Katinka Ashbyrn,” she continues, before looking up at me. “This must have belonged to her.”

“There's no way it's been out here all this time,” I point out. “She died, what, a century and a half ago? A book would have been destroyed by now. It would've rotted away.”

She flicks through the pages. “It's very well-preserved,” she mutters after a moment. “Very well-thumbed, too. I'm going to hazard a guess that Katinka was a deeply religious woman. Either that, or she wanted to keep up appearances.”

“That's great,” I reply, “but did she really go to all this trouble just so we could find an old bible? Do you think she wants us to bury it with her, something like that?”

“It's possible,” she continues, “but -”

Suddenly the bell rings out again, and this time it doesn't stop. Over and over again, far faster than before, it rings again and again. Turning, I look up at the ruined tower, but there's still no sign of the bell itself. After a few seconds, realizing that the infernal sound doesn't seem to be stopping, I turn back to Vanessa.

“Well this is great,” I point out. “What -”

“Look!”

She points past me, her eyes filled with horror.

Turning, I'm shocked to see the bride standing at the far end of the ruined church, next to the remains of an arch that must have once formed the main entrance.

“Oh no,” Vanessa whispers, getting to her feet as the bells continue to ring and the bride starts making her way slowly toward us. “Please, no, I have to be wrong about this...”

“What's is it?” I ask, turning to her. “What does she want?”

She looks down at the bible in her trembling hands, and then she looks over toward the bride.

“You,” she stammers, her voice trembling with fear. “She wants you , Owen.”

“Me?”

I wait for her to explain, but she seems too shocked to say another word. After a moment, she looks back down at the bible.

“That's impossible,” I continue, trying not to panic as the ghostly figure comes closer. “I was alone in the house with her for days! Weeks, even! If she wanted me, she could have killed me at any moment.”

“She doesn't want to kill you,” Vanessa replies. “Owen, she wants to marry you.”

“You're...”

I pause, convinced that she must be joking, but then I turn and watch the advancing bride. The bells are still ringing, and with a slowly rising sense of fear in my chest I begin to realize that this feels like the start of a wedding service.

“That's why she's been making the bells ring!” Vanessa gasps. “She's been trying to call people to the church so she can finally get married!”

“To me?” I stammer incredulously.

“To anyone! I don't think it matters, not really. If you'd bothered to read the history of this house, you'd know that in life Katinka Ashbyrn was immensely proud. She married for status, not for love. She married because she thought it was the right thing to do, because she cared about how she was seen in polite society. You're a writer, Owen. You're a landowner, too. You took on Ashbyrn House and opened it up again after it had been abandoned for so long. I guess, as far as Katinka is concerned, you'll make a fine husband.”

I take a step back as the bride gets closer. This time, instead of screaming at us, she stops nearby at the spot where the aisle would once have ended, and then she slowly gets down onto her knees. She's still clutching her flowers and the veil is still covering her face, but I think maybe Vanessa is right.

Katinka's waiting for me.

“You have to do this,” Vanessa whispers.

I turn to her.

“We don't have a choice,” she continues. “Owen, please... I can't even begin to explain this, but I think you have to do what she wants.”

“You want me to marry a ghost?”

“Not particularly, but I think she's pretty keen. And I don't think it's a coincidence that we found her bible here.”

I shake my head. “Vanessa, please...”

“Look at her,” she continues, clearly terrified. “Owen, she died more than a century and a half ago. Think of all the people who must have lived at Ashbyrn House since it was built. As far as I can see, only one of them stayed here after death. If you ask me, that means she must really, really want something.” She pauses, before looking down at the bible. “I don't know what a woman from the Victoria era would think about being married by someone like me, but it looks like she doesn't care enough for it to matter. She just wants to be married. Maybe then she can finally rest in peace.”

“This is insane,” I point out. “Vanessa...”

“Just kneel next to her,” she tells me. “Let's get this over with.”

I shake my head.

“Owen, please,” she whispers, leaning closer to me, as if she hopes the bride won't be able to overhear us. “Maybe it'll be enough. Maybe it'll satisfy her. If you have a better idea, I'd love to hear it, but personally I'm all out.”

I hesitate for a moment, trying to think of something else we can try, but finally I turn and look down at the bride. She seems to be waiting patiently, with the veil still covering her face, as if she's certain that I'm going to give her what she wants. The thought is sickening and terrifying at the same time, but I think maybe I need to give Vanessa's idea a try.

The bells are still ringing, peeling through the night air.

Finally, even though I'm trembling with fear, I kneel on the cold grass. My leg is throbbing with pain and I can feel the broken sections of bone grinding together, but I figure I have to do this. The bride is still looking straight ahead, but moonlight is streaming down and I can just about see her dark silhouette hidden beneath the delicate lace veil. Now that I'm so much closer to her, just a couple of feet away, I can see that the shape of her face seems damaged, as if she has no nose and no cheeks.

Hearing the sound of pages being turned, I look up at Vanessa, who has stopped in front of us. Her hands are trembling as she looks through the bible.

“Why did I never pay attention at weddings, huh?” she asks, her voice wracked with fear. “I don't even remember what's supposed to be said.”

“Just get on with it,” I whisper, shuddering at the thought that I'm so close to the bride.

“Hopefully she doesn't want the whole ceremony,” Vanessa continues. “Just the -”

Suddenly the bells fall silent.

“Oh God,” I stammer under my breath.

Next to me, the bride remains completely still.

“I think you have to lift her veil,” Vanessa whispers.

I turn to her. “No way.”

“I think you have to, Owen!”

I shake my head.

“Lift the bloody veil!” she hisses. “Can we please just get through this? Once it's done, hopefully she'll let us leave!”

I hesitate for a moment, wanting to tell her once again that this whole idea is insane, but finally I realize I have no choice. With trembling hands, I reach over and take hold of the veil. To my surprise, I find that I can actually feel the delicate lace against my fingers. I pause for a moment longer, and then I slowly lift the veil up. At the same time, I close my eyes for a moment as I carefully move the veil aside, willing myself to be brave and open my eyes. I don't want to see her awful face, not directly.

I hear Vanessa let out a faint, shocked gasp.

My heart is pounding as I let go of the veil.

“Open your eyes, Owen,” Vanessa whispers.

I shake my head.

“You can't get married with your eyes closed,” she continues. “Open your bloody eyes so we can get this over with!”

Forcing my eyes open, I look directly at the bride as she continues to stare straight ahead in the moonlight. She's horribly disfigured, with rotten and discolored flesh that barely clings to her moonlit skull. She appears to have been burned at some point, with the flesh on the right side of her face seeming particularly damaged and her nose entirely missing. Sections of bone glint in the moonlight, and her right eye is just the hollow cavern of a skull, while her left eye looks to have shriveled until it's barely visible at all. Her lips have been burned away too, leaving her teeth visible, but this entire gruesome visage is framed by delicate strands of dark hair that hang down in curls.

“Should I start?” Vanessa whispers. “I'm gonna start.”

“Get it over with,” I reply.

“Do you think she can even hear us?”

Looking at the side of Katinka's face, I see that her ear looks to have been mostly burned away.

“Maybe,” I mutter, turning to look up at Vanessa. “Probably. Whatever. Just do this, so we can leave!”

She looks down at the bible and turns to another page, and then she hesitates for a moment. I've never seen Vanessa look so scared. She's always been the one who keeps herself together in tough situations, but I guess this is too much, even for her. There'll be time later to figure out what caused all of this, and to explain what seems to be a joint hallucination, but right now I can't think of a single thing to say that might make this situation any better.

“Dearly beloved,” she stammers finally, sounding as if she might suddenly turn and run at any moment, “we're gathered here today to celebrate the union between... between this man and this... woman.”

She swallows hard.

“Get on with it,” I whisper silently, bowing my head.

“I don't know the rest,” she admits.

“Just do the basics!”

She takes a deep breath.

“Owen Mark Stone,” she continues, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until the day you die?”

I nod.

“Say it,” she whispers.

“I do,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“And... Katinka Ashbyrn,” she adds, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedding husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until... I guess, until the day you die?”

We wait in silence. After a few seconds, I hear the faintest whisper coming from the spot next to me, as if the bride has said the magic words under her breath.

I turn to Vanessa and see that she looks just as helpless as I feel.

“Great,” she says finally, forcing a smile as she closes the bible, “then I suppose I...”

Her voice trails off for a moment.

“Well,” she continues, “I mean, I guess that's done so... I guess I... I mean, if no-one here present has any objections, I guess I now pronounce you man and wife.”

The only sound is a gentle night breeze that's blowing through the clearing, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees.

“Owen,” Vanessa adds, “you may now kiss the bride.”

I stare at her.

“Let's go!” she mouths silently, as if she's worried about being overheard.

Too horrified to move, I turn and look at Katinka Ashbyrn. She's still staring straight ahead, but after a moment I realize that something seems to be glistening on her cheek. It takes a few more seconds before I realize that a single tear is rolling from the shriveled flesh of her remaining eye.

Suddenly Vanessa taps my shoulder.

“Let's go!” she whispers.

Getting to my feet, I take a step back. So far, Katinka seems completely still, as if she's forgotten that we're here.

“Hopefully that's enough for her,” Vanessa mutters. “The story always said that she wanted to be married, and that she didn't care who the husband was. Now it's done, so maybe she can rest in peace and that'll be the end of it.”

“Maybe,” I reply, although I'm starting to feel that this is too easy.

“Which way's the nearest exit?”

I stare at Katinka for a moment longer, before turning and looking toward the trees.

“Over there,” I say finally, grabbing Vanessa's hand and starting to lead her away from the ruined church. The cold grass crunches under our feet, as if it wants to give away our position, but when I look over my shoulder I see that the bride is still kneeling at the ruined altar. “There's a wall about fifty feet into the forest,” I continue, turning to look ahead, “and then we'll be on the main road. After that, I don't know what we'll do, but we have to get the hell away from this house.”

Glancing over my shoulder again, I see that Katinka is still kneeling on the grass.

“Six months ago you ditched me the day before our wedding,” Vanessa points out, “and now I just officiated while you married another woman. How's that for luck?”

I look back yet again, but suddenly I freeze as I see that the bride is standing now, and that she's staring at us now from the ruins of the church.

“Run!” I shout, dragging Vanessa between the trees. It's impossible to see anything at all now, with the forest's canopy preventing all but a few slivers of moonlight from breaking through, but I know there's a wall somewhere ahead of us.

“I still have her bible,” Vanessa stammers.

“Hang onto it,” I reply. “We need proof that this really happened. If it really happened!”

Despite almost charging straight into several trees, I manage to lead Vanessa forward through the darkness. I'm starting to worry that we'll never find the wall, that maybe I've become disorientated, but suddenly I bump against a high line of bricks. Looking up, I see the top of the wall towering several feet above us. I don't remember it being this tall, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.

“Okay, you first,” I tell Vanessa.

“But how will -”

“I can manage!” I hiss, already stepping behind her so I can help her up. “You're the one she was trying to kill, remember?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I see nothing but the dark forest behind us. After checking to make sure that there's still no sign of Katinka Ashbyrn, I turn back to Vanessa and start helping her up. She struggles a little, and my damaged left leg keeps me from offering her much support, but finally she's able to grab the top of the wall and start hauling herself up.

“Do you see it?” I gasp. “The road's on the other side!”

“I'll help you up,” she replies once she's reached the top. “Owen, I -”

Suddenly she freezes, silhouetted against the stars above me.

“Owen, hurry!” she stammers, her voice filled with panic. “Owen, you have to get up here right now! Move!”

I look back through the forest, and this time I see a faint figure moving toward us between the trees. Katinka Ashbyrn is coming, and when I turn back toward the wall I feel a sudden rush of pain in my leg. I reach up, trying to grab Vanessa's outstretched hand, but my leg buckles slightly and I drop down.

“Hurry!” she hisses.

I try again, and this time I'm just able to reach Vanessa's hand. She grips me tight and tries to hold on, but I'm struggling to climb up and I can tell I'm in danger of pulling her back down.

“Owen, she's almost here!” she screams.

Unable to use my left leg properly, I have to rely on my right, but I can already feel myself starting to slip. At this rate, I'm going to take Vanessa with me, and I know the bride will try to hurt her. I try one final time to haul myself up, before realizing that this is hopeless.

“I'll try the gate!” I gasp.

“Owen, no! You -”

With that, I slip my hand free from her grip. The last thing I see, as I fall back, is Vanessa toppling the other way as she falls off the top of the wall and over toward the road. I slam down against the ground, letting out a gasp of pain, and for a few seconds I can barely move at all. Finally I start to haul myself up, but the pain is immense and it takes a moment before I'm even able to open my eyes.

“Owen!” Vanessa shouts from the other side of the wall. “Owen, where are you? I'll meet you at the gate! Run!”

As soon as I look up, I see the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn towering above me. I try to open my mouth, to beg her to let me go, but suddenly she lunges at me, screaming as she knocks me back against the wall. My head slams hard into the bricks, knocking me out instantly. The very last thing I see is her skeletal face leaning closer.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Katinka - 1859

“No,” I reply, frustrated by Mother's infernal babbling, “that is not necessary. I shall climb into the carriage beyond the gate, and then I shall be drawn through. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

“But Katinka -”

“Let me be!” I hiss, turning to her. I am about to tell her that she must calm her nerves, when I spot movement at the far end of the lawn. More guests are arriving for the wedding, although there are still only a dozen or so people in the church.

I sent over one hundred invitations, and I received a great many positive responses. For some reason, however, the actual number of attendees seems rather low. And those who are here seem rather timid and fearful.

“You look lovely,” Mother tells me. “The dress -”

“I know that!” I snap, craning my neck to watch as Doctor and Mrs. Hunstable make their way past the tree-line. “I had hoped to fill the church,” I continue, “but I suppose one cannot account for the taste of one's guests.”

“Are you alright?” she asks. “Katinka, your face appears awfully greasy and pale. You have an almost waxy complexion!”

“I applied an extra dose of my beauty compact this morning,” I mutter, as a strong breeze blows across the garden. Fortunately, the weights I tied into the hem of my dress mean that the material barely flutters at all, although the downside of this arrangement is that the dress is terribly heavy. “Do not fuss around me, Mother.”

“But some of the paste is...”

Her voice trails off for a moment, and she seems positively alarmed.

“Katinka,” she adds, “my dear, perhaps you have applied too much. It's smeared rather thickly across your features. You look a little like a doll! Why don't you come back inside for a few minutes, and let me put you straight a little?”

I can't help sighing. Mother will never understand what it is like to be a modern woman.

“Go to the church,” I tell her, “and ensure that Charles is ready. I shall head to the road and wait for the carriage.”

“But -”

“And then everything will be perfect!” I continue. “Pippa was supposed to take on many of these tasks for me, but of course she's not around anymore, is she? Foolish girl, didn't she realize that I would need her?”

“It's hardly her fault she was murdered,” Mother points out.

“One never knows,” I say darkly, and for a moment it occurs to me that perhaps – for my own benefit – I should have let Pippa live a little longer. Still, the past is the past and I must not let such awful trifles disturb me on the most important day of my life.

“This is all so rushed and stressful,” Mother complains, fanning herself. “I rather think I'm liable to faint!”

“Don't you dare!” I hiss, stepping closer to her. In the distance, a few more guests are arriving, and soon the bells will ring out to announce the start of the wedding. “Go to the church, Mother! See to it that all is ready! I shall meet Mr. Hanks outside the gate, and I shall climb into his carriage, and from that moment on...” I pause for a moment, struck by the realization that the big day has finally arrived.

All my planning.

All my dreams.

Everything has led to this day.

“Everything is going to be perfect,” I continue, with tears in my eyes. “I shall ride through the gates until I reach the church, and then I shall step down and go inside to be married. And everyone will surely agree that I am the most beautiful bride they ever saw.”

I pause for a few seconds, before realizing that Mother is still gawping at me like an idiot.

“Move!” I spit, pushing her away from me. Finally she starts stumbling toward the church, leaving me alone at the edge of the forest. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts, and then I make my way between the trees, heading toward the gate. I have to hold up the hem of my own dress, so that it does not drop into the dirt, and the weights are already making my arms hurt. Frankly, I am ashamed that I have nobody to help me with such things, but sometimes one must simply take matters into one's own hands.

If Father were here, he'd ensure that everything goes smoothly. As things stand, however, I am surrounded by fools and -

“Miss? Can you help me?”

Stopping, I turn and see that a scruffy-looking boy is standing just a few feet away, watching me with a hint of fear in his eyes. He looks so awful and dirty, and I'm quite certain he can't be one of the guests.

“Who are you?” I stammer, disturbed by a faint sense that I have seen this boy before. “This is private property! Get out of here, or I shall have you shot!”

“I don't know where to go,” he continues, stepping closer. “My father was put to the gallows a few days ago, and I don't...”

His voice trails off.

I feel a ripple of shock in my chest as I realize that this is the boy who was here the other day, stealing mushrooms with his father. I also saw him in town, hiding in one of the alleys while his father was put to death.

“I saw you there,” he adds. “At the hanging, I mean. And then I was thinking that maybe... Well, you were nice to us the other day. You let us keep the mushrooms we picked, and that's more than anyone else has done around here. So I thought perhaps... Well, it's just, you seem like the kindest person I've met in a long time, and I don't have anywhere to go.”

I stare at him for a moment. “How old are you?” I ask finally.

“Ten.”

“Is that all?” Staring at the boy, I can't help but notice that he seems dreadfully dirty. “Do you have no family? Other than your father, I mean.”

He shakes his head.

“No mother?”

“She died.”

“And no home?” I ask.

Again, he shakes his head.

“You have nothing?” I continue. “Nothing whatsoever, and nowhere to go?”

“I'm so hungry,” he replies. “Can you at least spare some bread?”

I open my mouth to tell him that of course I can't spare any bread. At the last moment, however, it occurs to me that perhaps I am partially to blame for his situation. After all, I did rather allow his father to hang for a crime he did not commit, even if – in the grand scheme of things – the man was clearly a ruffian who deserved to die. It's very unfortunate that he left behind a boy who has no way of coping, and I suppose I could feed him and give him some fresh clothes, perhaps even take him in for a short while. I have no obligation to do any of those things, of course, but I have always considered myself to be a kind and godly woman.

“Please,” he continues, his voice becoming a whine now as he stumbles closer. “I'm so hungry, I think I might die!”

“Don't touch me!” I hiss, taking a step back. “Your hands are dirty, you mustn't sully my dress! I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you at all!”

“I've got nowhere else to go!” he stammers, reaching for my arm.

I pull away. “You mustn't touch me!” I tell him, taking a step back. “I'm sorry about your father, but there's nothing I can do to help you!”

“Please -”

“Keep away or I shall scream!”

He stumbles again, almost falling, and then he stops just a few feet from me. There are tears in his eyes and his bottom lip is trembling, but I have no time to deal with the child now. A moment later, as if to prove that point, I hear the bells of the church starting to ring out through the morning air.

“My wedding is about to begin,” I whisper, overcome by a sudden sense of profound anticipation. “I must get to the gate, the carriage will be waiting...”

“I'll ask someone else,” the boy replies, turning and stumbling toward the lawn, as if he means to disturb the guests at the church. “I just need food.”

“Stop!” I hiss. “You can't disturb my guests!”

He stumbles again, this time dropping to his knees and letting out a pained gasp. When he tries to get up, he seems to sway for a moment, almost as if he's feeling too weak.

“Help me,” he whispers, as I pick up a rock and step closer behind him. “Please, I just -”

Suddenly he turns and reaches out, grabbing my dress with his filthy hands.

Panicking, I smash the rock down against the back of his head. Whereas I had to hit Pippa several times, on this occasion I make sure that I strike the boy with all the force I can muster, and he duly slumps to the ground. Looking down, I see a faint smudge of dirt on the side of my dress, left by his disgusting little hand. Fortunately, I'm able to brush the mud away.

On the ground, the boy lets out a faint, gurgled groan.

I glance toward the lawn, to ensure that nobody can see me, and then I crouch down so I can hit the boy a few more times, cracking his skull a little more with each blow until finally blood and some kind of pinkish material start slopping out onto the grass.

“As God is my witness,” I whisper, tossing the rock aside as I stare into the boy's dead eyes, “I had no choice. I had to end the poor little wretch's suffering.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

“You shouldn't have come here!” I hiss, watching as more blood dribbles from the boy's cracked head. “And you certainly shouldn't have touched my dress! Whatever were you thinking?”

As the bells continue to ring out, I find myself momentarily unable to look away from the boy's face. He was just a child, barely in control of his own life, and I feel immensely sorry that his father provided him with such a wretched life. Still, I couldn't possibly allow the boy to disturb my guests, and I know that I did the right thing.

Getting to my feet, I momentarily worry about what I shall do with the body, before realizing that such things do not matter right now. I'll simply leave him here in the forest, and I doubt anyone will stumble upon him. There'll be time later to bury him, or I could just leave him to rot. After all, this forest will belong to me, so nobody else has any right coming here.

Putting such worries out of my mind, I step over the corpse and start making my way between the trees, hurrying toward the gate as I hear the church bells ringing out louder than ever. At this rate, my guests might start worrying that I am rather delayed, but fortunately I quickly hear the whinnying of horses nearby, which means that Mr. Hanks is waiting.

Still holding my dress's weighted hem up from the mud, I reach the gate and hurry through, and sure enough Mr. Hanks is sitting at the front of the carriage while his two horses snort restlessly.

“Are you alone, my dear?” he asks, stepping down and heading around the side to open the carriage's door. “I was starting to worry that perhaps you were standing me up.”

“It's quiet alright,” I reply as he helps me up into the carriage. “I'm sorry I was delayed, but I'm ready now. I'm sure Charles is waiting.”

“You look absolutely radiant,” he adds, swinging the door shut. “Just a moment, and I'll have you at the church. The items you requested are next to you on the seat.”

“Thank you,” I reply gracefully, as he heads back to the front.

Looking down at the seat, I see my pot of paraffin. I open the lid and, as the carriage starts to roll forward, I smear just a little top-up of the mixture onto my face, adding to the paste I applied earlier. Perhaps Mother had a point, perhaps I have used a smidgen too much, but at least I know I shall have the most beautiful glow.

Taking a mirror from the box next to me, I try to look properly at my features, but the light in here is too low. A solitary candle is burning in a holder next to the door, just as I requested, so I take the candle and hold it close to the mirror, so that I can check myself one final time. I must admit, I look absolutely beautiful, more beautiful even than I could have hoped. The paraffin has most certainly made my face appear so much fresher, and if anything I actually look more beautiful than my painting.

Charles is a lucky man.

Suddenly the carriage rides over a rough patch of ground, causing me to drop forward and fall from the seat. I let out a pained cry as I land on my knees, and I feel a flash of heat suddenly ripple across my face. The candle has brushed my cheek, and I fall back against the carriage door as the heat intensifies.

Blinking furiously, I realize I can't see properly.

I reach up and touch my face, only for my fingertips to start burning. It takes a moment longer before I realize that the paraffin oil has caught light, and flames are now roaring from my features. I immediately reach out to grab one of the cushions, but the carriage bucks again and I'm thrown to the floor. I let out a pained cry, and now I can feel the heat starting to burn through my flesh.

“Are you alright in there, Miss Ashbyrn?” Mr. Hanks calls back to me, as the bells continue to ring out. “Not far now!”

I fumble for a cushion, finally pressing one against my face in the hope that it might extinguish the flames. All that happens, however, is that the cushion itself catches fire, and if anything the flames on my face and neck and stronger than ever. I can even hear them, sizzling against my ears as the paraffin continues to burn.

“Help me!” I scream finally, although I can barely hear my own voice over the roar of flames that have now spread to the shoulders of my dress. “Lord, somebody, help me!”

I lunge forward, trying to find the door, but I merely slam into the wall. Turning, I reach out and fumble for some way out of this carriage, but the pain is eating into my face and it takes several seconds before I'm able to push the door open. Tumbling forward, I slip and fall, crashing down onto the driveway.

In the distance, somebody screams.

Mother.

There are voices shouting, but the flames are still covering my face and I let out a pained cry as I stumble forward. Still blinking, I can just about see the driveway ahead of me, and the calm surface of the pond.

“Somebody get help!” Mr. Hanks cries out. “We need a doctor! Her face is on fire!”

Pushing past him, I rush toward the pond. All I can think about is diving into the water and cooling my agonized face, although at the last moment I trip and fall forward, crashing into the pond and then rolling onto my side as I start to sink. At least my face is no longer burning, although it takes a few more seconds before I bump against the pond's muddy bottom.

I try to get up, but my body is trembling and I can barely move at all. Indescribable pain has frozen my joints, and I feel as if the deeper levels of my flesh are still aflame.

Forcing my burned eyes to open once more, I see nothing but darkness. When I look up, however, I can just about make out the surface of the pond above me, shimmering under an overcast sky. I try to scream, but all that emerges from my mouth is a torrent of bubbles. A moment later, however, I'm able to make out several figures rushing to the pond's edge.

I reach up, but my wedding dress is weighing me down. Why is nobody coming down to help me? I try to crawl forward across the pond's muddy bed, but the weights sewn into the hem of my dress are holding me back. When I try to scream again, I accidentally take in a big gulp of dirty water, and I feel my belly filling with the muddy concoction. I try again, but more and water water is flooding into my body, weighing me down even further.

And still I am unaided.

“Help me!” I try to shout, but still nobody has jumped in to save me.

I reach my hand once more to the light, but already I am becoming weaker. Charles is up there, surely, yet even he has no leaped in to help. I watch my hand for a moment, before finally letting it fall back down into the mud. When I try one final time to scream, I can feel that my body is already full of water. I bump against the pond's muddy bottom, waiting desperately for arms to reach down and lift me up.

But no arms do.

My burned eyes remain open, unblinking as I stare into the darkness. Is it the darkness of the pond, or the darkness of my blindness? Or is it the darkness of death? My mouth is open too, half-filled with mud, but I no longer have the strength to fight.

In the distance, booming above the water, the church bells ring out for a moment longer. Finally they stop, just as my heart thumps one last time.

And then all is quiet, and I am left un-moving at the bottom of the pond. The water is faintly rippling the edges of my dress, but other than that I am completely still. One of my eyes is now most certainly blind, but the other is just about able to see several figures staring down at me from the edge of the pond. Either they do not see me, or for some reason they do not want to save my life. I think I can even see Charles among them, and Mother too. It is almost as if they have chosen to let me drown down here.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Owen - Today

The first thing I hear is the sound of flames crackling in the fireplace. After that, I realize the room is warm and calm, and that I'm back in my study. My eyes start to flicker open, but I'm tired and it takes a moment longer before I'm fully aware of my surroundings. I can smell whiskey, and when I look at the desk I see a glass waiting for me.

And then, slowly, I begin to realize that someone is with me in the room.

A hand is resting on my shoulder.

“Work,” a voice whispers. “I can look after the house. Your work is important.”

I open my mouth to ask how I got here, but the words catch in my throat. I feel nauseous, although after a moment I spot the painting on the far wall. I remember being out in the forest with Vanessa, and I remember us trying to climb over the wall, but after that...

The hand on my shoulder starts moving to the base of my neck. I feel cold, sharp fingertips dragging against my skin, and a moment later the fingers start ruffling through my hair and pressing against my scalp.

“You must work, darling,” the voice continues. “That's what matters to you, isn't it? I've watched you work so many times already. You always look so important. So intelligent and respectable. Noble, too, like Father. People always respect a man who writes.”

I try to look up at her, but I feel strangely dizzy and my vision is slightly blurred. Instead, I turn and see that the fireplace is roaring.

“Vanessa,” I whisper, “where...”

“Don't think of her,” the voice replies, interrupting me as another hand slips onto my shoulder. “This is your home now. You don't need anyone else. Just you and me, forever. Husband and wife.”

“I have to find Vanessa,” I stammer, starting to rise from the chair, only for the two hands to push me back down. I'm too weak and groggy to resist. “Where's Vanessa?”

“There's just us,” the voice says calmly, despite the firmness of her hold on me. “Remember how much work you got done when we were alone together, my darling. You worked all day and all night, and I took care of you. That's what you want, isn't it? A wife who'll look after the home while you do all your important things. That's what I'm here for.”

“But Vanessa...”

“She's gone now. It's just you and me.”

“But...”

“You,” she purrs, stroking the side of my neck, “and me.”

A moment later, I feel her gently kiss the top of my head.

I want to ask about Vanessa again, but suddenly I see that the laptop is open and waiting for me. When I came to Ashbyrn House, I just wanted to get away from the world and focus on my work. The world followed me and tried to drag me away, but I can't deny that when I was alone here I was at least able to get a lot of work done. More work, in fact, than I ever expected to manage in my entire life. Slowly, even though I'm worried about Vanessa, I reach for the laptop and enter my password, and then I find that the document from earlier is still open.

Waiting for me.

“My writer,” the voice whispers behind me. “You should write.”

“I should ,” I reply, staring at the blinking cursor. “It's what I came for.”

“No-one will ever trouble us again,” she continues. “I'll make sure of that. No-one will ever even set foot through the door.”

I start typing, and the words come easily. So easily, in fact, that I quickly become engrossed in the story I'm writing, and I barely even notice the sensation of a tender kiss on the side of my neck.

“I'm busy,” I mutter, as I type faster and faster.

“I'll let you work, husband,” the voice replies, and a moment later something moves past my desk.

I don't look up. I don't even acknowledge her as she leaves the room. Instead, I focus entirely on my work, although after a little while I take a sip of whiskey. Later, once the glass has emptied, I find that it's swiftly and miraculously refilled. I think someone came into the room just now and poured from the bottle, but I was too focused on my work to really pay much attention. My entire focus is on the laptop screen, although I'm vaguely aware of morning sunlight streaming through the window, and later I notice the light fading as night returns. Later still, there's more sunlight, which begins to fade as the next day draws to a close. Finally night comes yet again, and I take another sip of whiskey as -

Suddenly I let out a cry of pain as my fingers seize. Leaning back in the chair, I see that my hands are shaking, and it's clear that all this typing has started to cause damage. My knuckles are red and swollen, and I can't quite manage to straighten my fingers properly. The pain is intense and sharp, rippling through the tendons of my hands, and I simply can't type another word.

I need to rest, even if it's only for a few minutes. Nobody can just sit and write for so long without taking a break. Not even me.

Getting to my feet, I feel a twinge of pain in my back. I don't know exactly how long I've been at the desk, but I think perhaps I've been working for a couple of days. I try to tell myself that such a thing is impossible, that I couldn't possibly stay focused for so long, but my mind is racing and I have a vague memory of the sun rising and falling several times outside the window.

“Sit,” the female voice says suddenly from behind me, and I feel hands resting on my shoulders again, trying to force me back down into the chair. “It's what you do best, my husband, and I so like to watch you work. I've been watching you for days now. Let's continue.”

“My hands...” I gasp, looking down and finding that I still can't straighten my fingers properly. “I need to stop for a day or two.”

“Don't be silly.” She laughs, but it's a fake, forced laugh that peters out as she tries but fails to make me sit. “You just need to start again. You'll lose yourself in your work soon enough. I'll make sure of that.”

“I need food,” I whisper, stumbling around the side of the desk and heading to the door. “I need...”

Stopping in the doorway for a moment, I feel a little dizzy. I look around, half-expecting to see Bob, but then I remember that he's gone. I also remember the sound of his neck crunching as he was killed.

“I need to take a break,” I stammer again, limping out into the corridor and making my way slowly toward the kitchen. “I can't just sit and write like that, all day every day.”

“Of course you can,” the voice replies, still behind me. “You have my full support. As your wife, I'll do anything to keep you going.”

“I don't have a wife,” I whisper.

“Yes you do. You have me.”

“I need to walk,” I gasp, steadying myself against the wall for a moment.

The hands are still on my shoulders, still trying to pull me back to the study. I push onward, determined to keep going, but the hands are slowly starting to drag harder and harder.

“Leave me alone!” I gasp.

“Why are you being like this?” she asks. “I'm doing everything for you. No man could ask for a better wife.”

“I need a break,” I reply, before stumbling slightly and almost falling. Grabbing the edge of a table, I haul myself back up and make my way into the kitchen, although I'm already feeling dizzy again.

“I want you to work!” the voice says firmly. She sounds annoyed now, as if my refusal to sit back down at the desk is needling her. “You're only happy when you work!”

“Leave me alone,” I stammer, “I just -”

Suddenly I stop as I see Vanessa's bloodied body on the floor. Frozen by the horrific sight, I realize that not only is there a heavy bruise on the side of her forehead, but a thick slice of glass is embedded deep in her face, slicing through the bridge of her nose between her dead, glassy eyes. Her mouth is wide open, with more blood caked all around the edges, while red spatters mark a path all the way over to the broken window.

“She came back for you,” the woman's voice whispers in my ear. “It's okay, though. I took care of her. I didn't let her disturb your work. Please, don't give the matter a second thought.”

“Vanessa!” I shout, stumbling over to her and dropping to my knees. I reach down and check for a pulse, but her body is already cold and blood has dried all around her mouth.

“She didn't understand you,” the voice continues, as I feel another hand brushing against the back of my neck. “She wanted to interrupt you, to stop you working. She was angry and noisy, and I was worried you might be disturbed, so I dealt with her. She won't be getting in your way again.”

“Vanessa, you have to listen to me,” I stammer, shuddering with shock as I try desperately to find some hint of life. A twitch, perhaps, or a hidden heartbeat.

But there's nothing.

“This isn't real,” I whisper. “This is like Charlie. I hallucinated Charlie, and now I'm...”

My voice trails off as I hold Vanessa's cold, dead hand for a moment. Finally, I set her hand on her chest, and deep down I know that this is no hallucination.

“Why did you come here?” I sob, as tears stream down my face. “I never wanted you to come. I wanted you to stay away.”

“Forget about her,” a voice says behind me. “She's nothing.”

Turning, I look up and see the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn towering above me, smiling with her wretched, ravaged face. Her lips are almost completely gone, yet still her cheeks are raised and her teeth are showing, and the smile is impossible to miss. After a moment, she reaches down toward me with a thin, bony hand.

“Come, my husband,” she says calmly. “I should have cleaned this mess several days ago when it first happened, before you saw it all. Forgive me, I had a lapse, but I so enjoy watching you work.”

“You killed her,” I stammer, pulling away.

“Of course. She didn't want to let you work.”

My hand slips into a patch of Vanessa's dried blood, and I look back again at her dead eyes. How could I have sat at my desk and worked, and been completely unaware of her cries and screams? Was I really lulled into such a powerful reverie that I remained oblivious while the love of my life was being murdered? Because that's what she was, despite everything I said and everything I did. She was the love of my life, and now she's gone.

“I'm so sorry,” I whisper, as tears start streaming down my face. “Vanessa, you should have run. You should never have come back for me.”

“Exactly,” Katinka Ashbyrn replies. “If she'd left you alone, I wouldn't have had to hurt her.”

“You're a murderer!” I shout, looking up at her.

“I'm a wife,” she continues. “Anything else is secondary to that role. I am your bride, and there's nothing I won't do to make our home perfect for you.”

I stumble to my feet, while slowly backing across the kitchen.

“You love me,” she says, stepping around Vanessa's corpse and coming closer. “I know that. You never would have married me if you didn't love me with all your heart.”

I open my mouth to tell her that she's insane, but suddenly I realize the truth. She is insane. Not just crazy, not just deluded, but deeply and irreparably insane. As much as I want to scream at her for what she did to Vanessa, I know I can't reason with someone who sees the world from such a cracked perspective. In fact, I get the feeling she must have lost her mind long, long before she died.

After a moment, I look down at Vanessa.

Maybe there's still a chance. Maybe if I get her away from here, I can make a miracle happen.

“I'll clean up this awful mess,” Katinka says, stepping toward me. “You must work.”

“No,” I whisper, turning to her again. I hate the sight of her ravaged face, but I can't look away. Not yet. Not if I want to trick her. “I should take her outside and... I'll dispose of her.”

“That's my job,” she replies, shaking her head. “You're my husband. Your job is to write.”

“But this is heavy work,” I point out, hoping against hope that I can appeal to some twisted sense of propriety that might linger deep in her soul. “A woman shouldn't be doing such things. As the man of the house, I should carry the body out.”

I wait for her to reply, but I think maybe I'm getting through to her.

“You should clean up the blood and the glass,” I continue, trying – but not quite managing – to smile. “This place is a disgraceful mess.”

“I'm sorry,” she stammers. “You're right, I -”

“So get on with it!” I add. “Do you think a wife should let her home fall into such disrepair? I shall do the heavy lifting, I shall move the body, but you must make the place neat again.”

“Of course!”

“Thank the Lord we don't have visitors,” I continue. “What would they think if they saw our house like this? How do you expect me to work, when you're not carrying out your wifely duties?”

“I'm sorry!”

To my surprise, she drops to her knees and starts gathering the broken glass in her hands. She seems frantic, almost desperate, and I think she's actually trembling a little.

“Please forgive me,” she whimpers. “I know I'm not a perfect wife, but I'll get better. I shall become worthy of you!”

“I'm sure you will,” I reply, watching her for a moment longer before reaching down and gathering Vanessa's body in my arms. Lifting her from the floor, I take a step back. “I'll bury her in the forest,” I continue. “It won't take long. I'll dig the pit myself.”

Katinka looks back up to me, and once again there are tears streaming down one side of her burned and rotten face.

“My dear,” she says cautiously, “what if -”

“I'm the man of the house, aren't I?” I continue. “I don't think you should question me. I'll be back soon, and by then I hope this kitchen will look decent again.”

“I promise,” she stammers, frantically gathering more glass into her hands. She's clearly filled with panic, which in turn should mean that she's distracted.

I watch her for a moment longer, struck by how pathetic she seems, and then I turn away. My damaged leg is stiff and painful, and I feel it might buckle at any moment, but I keep going until I'm out of the house and on the edge of the lawn. I want to run for safety, but I know I can't risk arousing Katinka's suspicions. Instead, I glance over my shoulder and see that she's working with furious intensity. She even seems to be muttering under her breath, as if she's genuinely angry with herself for letting me down.

Turning, I start to carry Vanessa across the lawn.

“Can you hear me?” I whisper, hoping against hope that I'm wrong, and that she might yet possess a flicker of life. “I'm getting us out of here.”

There's no response at all, so I simply keep walking, heading past the pond. With each step, I have to fight the urge to run, but finally I allow myself to look back toward the house. Sure enough, Katinka is still working in the kitchen, and it's clear that she's focusing on the task at hand. After a moment, she looks this way, and we briefly make eye contact before she turns and resumes her work. The woman is insane, and she seems to genuinely believe that she's being a good wife.

“I'm going to get help for you,” I whisper to Vanessa as I carry her past the edge of the lawn and into the forest. I can already see the wall ahead, and I'm certain we'll be okay once we get to the other side. I stumble slightly, almost dropping Vanessa's body, but I manage to keep going until finally I get to the wall.

I turn again, and although the house is a long way off now, I can just about see Katinka still rushing around in the kitchen, still trying to please me.

“It's now or never,” I mutter, looking back down at Vanessa's glassy eyes. Deep down, I know the odds are slight, but I also know I have to try.

Pushing against the pain, I lift Vanessa up and shove her onto the top of the wall. Then, even though my arms are throbbing and my leg feels as if it's about to break again, I reach for the wall's edge and take a firm grip, before finally hauling myself up. I almost slip a couple of times, but somehow I find the strength to keep going as I haul myself higher and higher.

“Stop!” Katinka screams suddenly. “What are you doing?”

I glance over my shoulder and see her rushing toward us, crashing through the trees as she lets out an ear-piercing cry.

Realizing that this is my last chance, I throw myself over the top of the wall, knocking Vanessa's body off in the process and sending us both crashing down against the grass verge on the other side. At the same time, I roll away from the wall and look up, just in time to see the faintest hint of Katinka's outline starting to push through the bricks before she finally fades to nothing.

Her scream hangs in the air for a moment longer, before that too is gone.

Scrambling to my feet, I pick Vanessa's body up and start stumbling along the road, heading toward town. I can hear someone still screaming in the garden of Ashbyrn House, but I don't dare look back, not even as I limp past the main gate. I just have to get Vanessa to safety and pray that there's still a chance she can be saved. Or, better yet, perhaps I'll find that she wasn't here at all, and that she was just a hallucination like Charlie.

“It's okay,” I whisper as I carry her through the cold night air, ignoring another scream from Katinka in the distance. “Everything's going to be fine. You're going to wake up.”

Suddenly I see lights ahead, and I realize that a car is heading this way. We're saved.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Katinka - 1859

“The stones of the church will fetch a fine price,” Charles continues, as morning sunlight streams through the windows and into the study. “I know a man in Chelmsford who will most certainly be willing to come and take them. You mustn't worry, Mrs. Ashbyrn. I shall not desert your family in its hour of need.”

“You are most kind,” Mother replies, still dabbing at her tear-filled eyes. “I don't know what I shall do with the place, not now that both my daughters are...”

She hesitates, before breaking down into a fresh series of sobs.

“When does your sister arrive from Goostrey?” Charles asks calmly.

“Tomorrow, I believe,” she whimpers. “Or the day after.”

“It's a shame she wasn't here already for the wedding,” he replies, “although I understand that Katinka suffered rather poor relations with much of your family.”

“Oh, she was not popular,” Mother continues, wiping her eyes again. “You saw the other day, there were so few people in the church. Katinka was...”

Her voice trails off for a moment.

“Well,” she adds, “it would perhaps not be kind to speak ill of the dead. After all, Katinka was only buried yesterday.”

“Indeed, and it was a sad occasion for us all.” Charles pauses, before offering a broad smile. “Still, life goes on, does it not? Such a shame that nobody was able to pull Katinka from the pond before it was too late, but these things happen. And Mrs. Ashbyrn, I know that this next matter might seem a little delicate, but I believe I might have come up with a solution to your most pressing problem.”

“Really?” Now she, too, manages to muster a smile. “And what might that be?”

He pauses again.

“Well,” he adds finally, almost as if he's a little nervous, “as you well know, your position would be greatly improved if you yourself were a married woman. And society is not oblivious to the needs of those who have been widowed for some considerable time. Re-marriage is certainly an option for you.”

“I doubt I shall find anyone who wishes to marry me ,” she replies, chuckling at the idea. “I am no spring chicken, Charles.”

“But a marriage could be arranged,” he continues, “if you were able to find a suitable, and understanding gentleman.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but suddenly she seems rather shocked by his suggestion.

“Oh,” she gasps, “you mean...”

“If you are in need of a husband,” he adds, “then I would remind you that I, in turn, am in need of a wife. The situation is rather unusual, granted, but sometimes unusual situations can be overcome. I am sure some of the less liberal-minded people in the area would have their doubts, but that need be of no concern to either of us. I rather feel, Mrs. Ashbyrn, that you and I could help one another immeasurably if we were to marry. And I think this course of action would help you to keep Ashbyrn House safely in your family's possession. Perhaps, after all the tragedies of late, some good might come out of the situation.”

She stares at him for a moment, before getting to her feet.

“I must give the matter some thought,” she tells him, rather haughtily. “I shall let you know my decision by the end of the day.”

With that, Mother heads out of the room, although it's clear from her smile that she has already decided. She intends to marry Charles, despite the age-gap, and together they will strip Ashbyrn House of its value. The church will be only the first asset that they will destroy, and soon Father's great house will have fallen into ruin and disrepair.

Even now, Charles sits at Father's desk and adds notes to his plans, before suddenly he gets to his feet and crosses the room, stopping in front of my painting. He holds his hands behind his back, and for a moment he seems rather lost in contemplation. Perhaps he feels that he is finally on the verge of getting everything he ever wanted.

Now that Mother has left the room, I step out of the shadows in the corner and start making my way over to Charles. I move silently, without causing the slightest disturbance in the air. I do not even breathe. I have learned, during the past few days, that the living members of the household do not seem to notice me very easily. Still, I believe I know how to make them see me, and I have waited until the perfect moment to reveal myself to the man who was once going to become my husband.

“What an ugly thing,” Charles mutters under his breath, still looking at the painting as I stop behind him. “Utterly foul and horrid in every way. Why, it's barely suitable to go on a bonfire.”

I stand right behind him.

Watching.

Waiting.

He takes another sip of tea.

Slowly, I reach up and place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't react at all, but I'm quite certain that he'll notice eventually.

He observes the painting for a moment longer, before taking another sip.

“Hello, Charles,” I whisper, unable to hide a faint smile. “Did you miss me?”

“Very old-fashioned,” he mutters, tilting his head slightly as if to get a better look at the painting. “Then again, old Katinka always was a stick-in-the-mud.”

I lean closer to the side of his head, until my lips are so very close to his ear.

“I know you let me drown on purpose,” I tell him. “Not just you, either. There were others who could have saved me. Was I really hated so very much? Was -”

Before I can finish, he reaches up and brushes his ear, as if he sensed some faint disturbance.

“Was I really despised?” I continue. “So despised that you would stand at the edge of the pond and watch as I died? Was I really such an awful person while I was alive?”

I wait, but now he seems to have fallen silent.

After a moment, I realize I can hear a faint rattling sound. Looking down, I see with great pleasure that his hands are trembling with such force that he can barely hold his teacup.

“Hello, Charles,” I say again.

The teacup falls from his hands, shattering against the floor.

“I have been watching you for some time now,” I continue. “Preparing for my funeral. Returning. Talking to others about me. I have watched, and listened, to so very -”

Suddenly he turns, clearly startled, but he seems not to notice me even though I am right next to him. He looks around the room, before straightening his shirt and muttering something under his breath, something about staying calm. Ignoring me completely, he makes his way over to the window, where he stops again and looks out at the beautiful lawn. Still, I know full well that I have begun to get through to him. It might take time, but I am finally on the verge.

I pause for a moment, before making my way up behind him once again.

Outside the window, the church stands tall and proud, looming above the line of trees. I honestly cannot believe that Charles would dare tear down such a beautiful structure, or that Mother would let him. Still, they are clearly a craven pair, and they give more thought to money than to the importance of this house and its grounds. Father would be horrified, as am I. Charles might think that he has hit gold, that he will be able to marry my mother and take control of Ashbyrn House, but I rather think he is mistaken. Even now, as I stand right behind him, I can somehow sense that fear is creeping through his chest.

A moment later, I look at the window and see his reflection staring straight at me.

I smile.

Suddenly he turns and looks into my eyes, and then he lets out a stricken gasp as he stumbles back against the wall.

“No,” he stammers, “it can't... You're dead!”

I watch him, amused by his panic as he clutches his collar. Sweat is pouring down his face, and a moment later he drops to his knees.

“Please, Katinka,” he groans, his voice filled with pain. “What do you want from me? I only -”

He lets out a sudden grunt, and now he appears rather red and flustered. A moment later he grips his left arm and winces, as if he's in a great deal of pain.

“Help me!” he gasps, as if he is trying to call for assistance. “Myrtle! Somebody! Come and... help...”

Sweat is pouring down his face now, and he looks red enough to burst as he continues to grip his arm.

“Help me,” he whines. “Please, God...”

His terrified eyes stare at me for a few seconds longer, and then finally he lets out a long, low and very breathless groan. Even his eyes are becoming redder now, and he seems to be holding his breath. Finally, just as I'm starting to wonder how much longer he can last, he emits one final shocked gasp before slumping dead against the carpet.

“This house is mine,” I whisper calmly. “Now, and forever. You will not even be remembered in the pages of its history. You wretched, frightful, unworthy worm of a man!”

I pause, before turning and looking over at Father's beautiful mahogany desk. Charles was not fit to sit there, he was not even fit to set foot in this house, but one day I shall find a real man. A better man. When that day arrives, I shall take my place at his side. Why, even in death, I feel I have much to offer the right man. And he, in turn, will come to rely upon me as we work to uphold the glory and beauty of this splendid house. Though my body might rot in the grave, my mind persists.

Hearing footsteps in the distance, I turn to look over at the door. Mother is coming back, and this time I shall make sure that she, like Charles, sees my face. I shall not grant her a quick death, however. No, Mother must suffer.

Ashbyrn House is mine. All I need is a husband, but I am patient. I shall wait, and eventually a good man will surely come to me and sit at Father's desk.

Epilogue

Many years later

“Wait,” I stammer, suddenly looking out the taxi's window and seeing a familiar street flash past. “Where are we?”

“Sorry,” the driver replies from the front seat. “There's works on the motorway, so I figured we'd take a shortcut. It'd be slower usually, but I reckon we'll actually make up some time doing it this way.”

“What's this town called?” I continue, still looking out and feeling more and more certain that I've been here before. I want to believe that I'm merely panicking, but the buildings look awfully familiar, even if they've changed a little over the years.

“Turthfeddow, according to the computer,” the driver tells me. “I reckon -”

“Stop the car!”

“But -”

“Stop right now!”

He brings the car to a halt, right outside a very familiar pub. The Hanging Man .

“Is this a joke?” I ask.

“I'm sorry?”

My heart is pounding, but I open the door and step out. Sure enough, I find that I'm finally back in the one place I swore I'd never visit again. Turthfeddow has changed over the years, but I swear this town is burned into my memory. I spent so long in prison, protesting my innocence and swearing that I didn't kill Vanessa, and now – just nine months after my sentence ended, fate and roadworks have conspired to bring me right back to the scene. Maybe I was wrong to think I could ever get away.

“Do you mind if I nip to that gas station down the road?” the driver asks, leaning out of his car. “Just to top up?”

“Meet me back here,” I reply, already stepping toward the pub's front door. As the taxi creeps away, I head into the building and find that the place has changed a lot, with the bar having switched to the opposite side of the room. Still, I remember coming in here and adopting Bob late one night, all those years ago, and I can't help smiling as I see another dog curled in the corner.

“It's alright,” the barman says as he wipes some more glasses down. “He won't bite.”

“I'm sure he won't,” I mutter, heading over to pat the dog before making my way to the bar. “I have one at home. Just got him last week, as it happens.”

“You're never alone with a dog.”

“That's true.” I pause for a moment, feeling a little lost. I hope nobody recognizes me. After all, most of the country still believes that I murdered Vanessa on that fateful night at Ashbyrn House. At the trial, even my lawyer warned me to drop all the talk of ghosts and mysterious bells, but I insisted on telling the truth. Nobody believed me, but I had no choice. I couldn't lie, even if my only evidence was a battered old bible that had once belonged to the lady of the house. And I ended up serving a sentence for manslaughter, even though I was completely innocent.

“Drink?” the barman asks, not unreasonably.

“Water, thank you,” I stammer. “Just a bottle.”

“We're going out!” a girl says suddenly, as she and her friend come running through from the pub's back-room. “Seeya later, Dad!”

“Where exactly are you off to?” he asks.

“Don't worry, we're not going there . We're just gonna hang out. We're not crazy enough to climb the wall and go to Ashbyrn House.”

“Does anyone ever go there?” I ask, turning to her.

She hesitates. Clearly, she's been warned by her parents that she shouldn't talk to strangers. “Sorry?”

“Ashbyrn House,” I continue, trying not to panic. “People don't... They don't go to the house, do they? It's private property, I mean... No-one should set foot past the gate.”

She seems nervous, but finally she shrugs. “Nah. Sometimes people go near it, though. That's when they hear things. It's haunted.”

“Nonsense,” the barman mutters as he sets a bottle of water on the bar for me.

“Haunted by who?” I ask the girl.

She pauses. “Well, everyone knows the story. There's some woman who haunts the place. There's this legend that her husband jilted her after their wedding. Apparently, if you go late at night, sometimes you can hear her screaming and wailing and sobbing. If you ask me, I can't say I blame her. What kind of arsehole runs out on a woman after marrying her?”

“That's the legend?” I ask, shocked that so much seems to have changed. “An abandoned wife who wants her husband back? Not a woman who died before her big day?”

“It's probably bollocks,” the girl adds, before turning and heading out with her friend. “You still wouldn't catch me dead out there, though. Not even during the day. Everyone knows to leave that old dump well alone. It's just a story people tell to scare themselves.”

“Don't pay too much attention to my daughter,” the barman tells me, as I turn to him. “Most people in Turthfeddow just leave Ashbyrn House well alone. It's empty and deserted, so why go near the place? No-one really believes the ghost stories. If you ask me, they should tear the house down and be done with it all.”

I pause for a moment, genuinely shocked to find that so much has changed.

“The bells,” I whisper finally. “Do people ever hear bells ringing out from the grounds of the house?”

“Bells?” He furrows his brow. “I don't think so. Why would they?”

“It's changed,” I mutter under my breath, as I feel a tightening sense of fear creeping through my chest. “ She's changed. She wants something else now.”

***

Thirty minutes later, the taxi slows to a halt at the side of the road, and I find myself staring out at Ashbyrn House's main gate. Whereas some things in Turthfeddow had changed, here beyond the edge of town it's as if time has stood still. Glimpsed through the gate's bars, the house looks exactly the same as before.

“Should I keep going?” the taxi driver asks. “We're running a bit late now.”

“Just one moment,” I reply, opening the door and stepping out.

As I make my way across the road, I can't help noting that Ashbyrn House looks rather tame and cold. Dead, even. The house has remained under my ownership for the past quarter-century, and I am the only person who still possesses a key to the front door. In all that time, ever since the police completed their investigation into Vanessa's death, nobody has entered the house, and even the grounds have mostly been secured thanks to various high-tech solutions. The walls cannot be climbed, nor can the gate be forced open. Every precaution has been taken, in order to keep the curious away.

I can just about make out the ruined church beyond the trees, and it's strange to think that those ghostly bells no longer ring out across the property. Then again, I suppose they're no longer needed. The bells were a call, a signal that a bride was awaiting a husband. Now that she has a husband, evidently her focus has changed.

Stopping at the gate, I look between the bars and see the house at the far end of the driveway. For a moment, I find myself wondering whether – even after all these years – there might be some reasonable explanation for what happened. Lord knows, during those years in jail, I often wondered whether the bride of Ashbyrn House was another hallucination, something I imagined in order to cover up my real actions. Deep down, though, I know that's not true.

She was real.

Reaching into my pocket, I take out the key, and I actually start considering the possibility that I could open the gate and walk along the gravel driveway, and that I could then unlock the front door and step back into Ashbyrn House. I could face the ghosts of the past and prove that they're not real, and I could begin to unravel the truth about what happened within those walls, all those years ago. I even look down at the lock, where I spot a spindly-legged spider lurking as if it's watching me.

But then I look back toward the house, and that's when I see her.

Katinka Ashbyrn's pale, gray face is at one of the windows, staring out at me from the study. Even from here, I can see the anger in her eyes. It's the anger of a spurned wife, of a woman who finally got what she wanted and who then had the prize cruelly snatched away from her. Betrayed and furious, she glares at me, waiting for me to return to the house and sit at my desk, and for me to be her husband. I know there's still a laptop in the house, containing millions of words of a book I would dearly love to get back. Nothing, however, could make me cross the threshold and return to Ashbyrn House, so I slip the key back into my pocket.

Still making eye contact with the distant figure, I take a step back.

Although I know she's real, in my heart of hearts I still retain a flicker of hope that she might suddenly vanish, and that I might be able to sleep easily at my hotel tonight, knowing that her ghost is no longer waiting for me.

Suddenly Katinka Ashbyrn screams, while remaining in the window of the study. Her scream is filled with anger and rage, but I turn my back on her and walk back over to the taxi. Though the scream continues, I've now put aside any thoughts of ever going back into that house. I could send in the bulldozers, of course, and tear the place down, but then perhaps she'd be set free. After all, I saw her twice in London, so I know she can reach beyond the house in certain circumstances. Better, I think, to just leave her trapped within those walls. Even as the taxi pulls away, I can still hear Katinka's scream in the distance, but it will fade soon enough and I will certainly never come near the house again. Even if, ultimately, I cannot end the madness.

“Did you hear anything just now?” I ask the driver.

“Come again?” he replies.

“While I was at the gate. Did you hear a noise coming from the house?”

“Sorry, I didn't hear anything,” he mutters. “Then again, I had the radio on, so I don't suppose I could've. Why, what was I supposed to hear?”

“Nothing,” I reply, leaning back in the seat, although I know my answer isn't true. It wasn't nothing. It was something very real, something that still lurks in that cold and empty house.

One day, someone else will make the mistake of unlocking the front door and going back inside Ashbyrn House. One day, someone else will walk through those rooms. One day, someone else will decide to make a home there, oblivious to the presence that watches them from the shadows. One day, someone else will wake up in the night, hearing a faint scratching sound that they quickly dismiss as restless beams. And one day, someone else will sit at that desk and write, and for a while not notice the presence that arrives to watch them.

But not me.

For as long as I draw breath, that house will remain locked and abandoned. And the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn will be left to scream alone.

Also by Amy Cross

B&B

A girl on the run, hiding from a terrible crime.

An old B&B in a snowy city.

A hidden figure lurking in the streets, waiting for his next victim.

When Bobbie takes a room at the rundown Castle Crown B&B, all she wants is to get some sleep and make a tough decision about her future. Unfortunately, the B&B's other guests won't give her any peace, and Bobbie soon realizes that she's stumbled into a world with its own rules. Who is the mysterious bandaged woman? Why is there a dead man in the bathtub? And is something deadly lurking in the basement?

Before she can leave, however, Bobbie learns that the city of Canterbury is being terrorized by a mysterious figure. Every time snow comes, the Snowman claims another victim, leaving their blood sinking into the ice. If Bobbie leaves the B&B and ventures out into the empty streets, she risks becoming his next target. But if she stays, her soul might be claimed by something even more deadly.

B&B is a horror story about a girl with a secret, and about a building with a past.

Also by Amy Cross

THE BODY AT AUERCLIFF

“We'll bury her so deep, even her ghost will have a mouth full of dirt!”

When Rebecca Wallace arrives at Auercliff to check on her aged aunt, she's in for a shock. Her aunt's mind is crumbling, and the old woman refuses to let Rebecca stay overnight. And just as she thinks she's starting to understand the truth, Rebecca makes a horrifying discovery in one of the house's many spare rooms.

A dead body. A woman. Old and rotten. And her aunt insists she has no idea where it came from.

The truth lies buried in the past. For generations, the occupants of Auercliff have been tormented by the repercussions of a horrific secret. And somehow everything seems to be centered upon the mausoleum in the house's ground, where every member of the family is entombed once they die.

Whose body was left to rot in one of the house's rooms? Why have successive generations of the family been plagued by a persistent scratching sound? And what really happened to Rebecca many years ago, when she found herself locked inside the Auercliff mausoleum?

The Body at Auercliff is a horror story about a family and a house, and about the refusal of the past to stay buried.

Also by Amy Cross

PERFECT LITTLE MONSTERS

AND OTHER STORIES

A husband waits until his wife and children are in bed, before inviting a dangerous man into their home...

A girl keeps hold of her mother's necklace, as bloodied hands try to tear it from her grasp...

A gun jams, even as its intended victim begs the universe to let her die...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories is a collection of short stories by Amy Cross. Some of the stories take place in seemingly ordinary towns, whose inhabitants soon discover something truly shocking lurking beneath the veneer of peace and calm. Others show glimpses of vast, barbaric worlds where deadly forces gather to toy with humanity. All the stories in this collection peel back the face of a nightmare, revealing the horror that awaits. And in every one of the stories, some kind of monster lurks...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories contains the new stories Perfect Little Monsters , I Hate You , Meat , Fifty Fifty and Stay Up Late , as well as a revised version of the previously-released story The Scream . This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

Also by Amy Cross

ANNIE'S ROOM

1945 and 2015. Seventy years apart, two girls named Annie move into the same room of the same remote house. Their stories are very different, but tragedy is about to bring them crashing together.

Annie Riley has just broken both her legs. Unable to leave bed, she's holed up in her new room and completely reliant upon her family for company. She's also the first to notice a series of strange noises in the house, but her parents and brother think she's just letting her imagination run overtime. And then, one night, dark forces start to make their presence more keenly felt, leading to a horrific discovery...

Seventy years ago, Annie Garrett lived in the same house with her parents. This Annie, however, was very different. Bitter and vindictive and hopelessly devoted to her father, she developed a passionate hatred for her mother. History records that Annie eventually disappeared while her parents were executed for her murder, but what really happened to Annie Garrett, and is her ghost still haunting the house to this day?

Annie's Room is the story of two girls whose lives just happened to be thrown together by an unlikely set of circumstances, and of a potent evil that blossomed in one soul and then threatened to consume another.

OTHER BOOKS

BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE

Horror

The Body at Auercliff
B&B

The Disappearance of Katie Wren

The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

The Haunting of Blackwych Grange

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

Twisted Little Things and Other Stories

The Printer From Hell

The Farm

The Nurse

American Coven

Annie's Room

Eli's Town

Asylum

Meds (Asylum 2)

The Night Girl

Devil's Briar

The Cabin

After the Cabin

Last Wrong Turn

At the Edge of the Forest

The Devil's Hand

The Ghost of Shapley Hall

The Death of Addie Gray

A House in London

The Blood House

The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)

Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)

The Border

The Lighthouse

3AM

Tenderling

The Girl Clay

The Prison

Ward Z

The Devil's Photographer

Fantasy / Horror

Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3

The Girl With Crooked Fangs (Vampire Country book 1)

Grave Girl

Graver Girl (Grave Girl 2)

Ghosts

The Library

Thriller

The Girl Who Never Came Back

Other People's Bodies

Dystopia / Science Fiction

The Dog

The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)