The taxi dropped me on the side of the narrow lane as the last of the afternoon light bled out behind the high hills surrounding the cottage. The driver, a wiry man with a thick northern accent that made him hard to understand to a London girl like me, muttered something beneath his breath as he unloaded my suitcase from the car boot.
He cast anxious glances at the house, half-hidden by the overgrown trees and bushes that loomed eerily over the narrow path leading up to it. His final grunted words to me were something about "bad weather coming" before he leapt back into his taxi and reversed down the lane like the devil was chasing him.
I couldn't really blame him.
Ashwood Hollow didn't look at all welcoming. Moss-cloaked stone walls leaned at odd angles, half-swallowed by tangled ivy. The gate creaked like it had been waiting decades to be opened and my suitcase bounced awkwardly over the uneven path as I approached the crooked front door.
The key was stiff in the lock, and I had to shove my shoulder against the swollen wood before it gave way with a groan.
Inside, it was colder than I'd expected. Not just the usual damp chill of an old house, but a deeper cold, one that settled into my bones the moment I stepped across the threshold.
I shivered and rubbed at my arms as I surveyed the dimly lit room.
The only light came from the dusk outside and the weak beam of the torch on my phone. I wrinkled my nose at the smell: Mothballs, dust and something metallic. Probably rust.
A flick of the switch on the wall beside the door and a lone bulb flickered sullenly to life-soft, yellow and barely brighter than candlelight.
I held back a sigh.
The cottage was exactly as it had looked in the photos. Mismatched furniture, old fashioned wallpaper and a fireplace stuffed with ash. But there was a weight in the air that I hadn't expected, like the house itself was holding its breath.
My great aunt Sylvia had left it to me in her will. We hadn't been especially close, and my memories of her were vague at best. Odd clothes, long silences. A sharp perfume that clung to my skin after I'd given her the obligatory hug.
She'd lived alone for decades, here in this cottage overlooking the lake. It stood a kilometre from town, hemmed in by forested hills on three sides, and the lake below. Her nearest neighbours were an inn I had passed on the drive from the town, and they were half-a kilometre away.
How lonely, I thought, shaking my head.
I wandered through the sitting room and into the kitchen, switching on lights as I went. Most of the appliances looked like they hadn't been touched since the 80s. The window above the sink was fogged with grime, and something scratched faintly at the glass outside.
Just the wind.
Probably.
I dumped my bags in the hall and started a fire with the logs stacked beside the hearth. The heat helped, a little. But the shadows stubbornly refused to retreat, they just shifted and danced in the flickering light of the fire.
Upstairs, the bedroom was cramped but serviceable. A double bed, a faded floral quilt, and a dressing table with an oval mirror so tarnished it barely showed my reflection.
I stared into it, anyway, brushing a curl of blonde hair behind my ear. My face looked pale and drawn, the circles under my eyes deeper than I remembered. Moving house, funeral stress, and three months of paperwork and arguments had taken their toll.
Back downstairs, I changed into a jumper and padded socks, boiled the kettle for a cup of tea, and tried to settle in.
Which was when I heard it.
A dull thump beneath the floorboards.
I froze.
It came again, softer this time, but real. Like something shifting below me.
I crept back out into the hall, head cocked, listening. Another thump. The floorboards shivering beneath my feet.
An animal, perhaps? Making a winter home, though November in the Lake District was probably not the time it would be doing that. Old pipes then, disturbed when I'd run the tap to fill the kettle.
Another thump and I yelped and hopped back into the living room. A moment of feeling silly for my reaction and then I stepped back out into the hall. There was a rug lying on the bare boards, edges curled up, and I kicked it aside.
It was flush with the floorboards, barely noticeable, with an old iron ring bolted to an inset in the wood. A hatch.
Leading to a cellar I assumed.
I knelt and tugged at the ring.
It didn't budge.
I tried again. Nothing. Just the thump of my own heartbeat in my ears and the feel of the cold iron ring in my hand.
It was sealed tight. Or something was holding it shut from below, that treacherous part of my mind kept telling me.
My skin prickled. It was just warped wood. Nothing sinister. Still, I backed away and tossed the throw rug back over it.
Then I shifted the bookcase, dragging it across the floorboards to sit atop the hatch.
Just in case.
That night, I tried to sleep, but the cold wouldn't leave me. I kept waking up, heart pounding, sure that I'd heard footsteps on the stairs. But every time I crept to the landing; the house was silent.
I told myself it was an old house, with strange noises that all old houses had.
Not that I quite believed it.
I shoved a chair beneath the door handle, preventing it from being opened from outside and I settled back into bed. The springs squeaked with every movement I made, and the branches of a tree kept tapping at the window.
At some point, near dawn, exhausted, I slept.
I dreamed of a voice whispering from the walls. Not words exactly, just a presence pressing against the edge of sleep, dragging me towards it.
I started awake, my nose bleeding. I stared at the red streak across my pillow, then at my pale reflection in the mirror.
Nope.
Not staying another night.
By eight o'clock, I was packed and trudging back down the lane with my suitcase bumping behind me. I didn't have a car yet, but the town was only a half hour's walk. I needed warmth, people, normalcy, while I decided what the heck I was going to do.
I'd given up everything back in London, coming north with the dream of a cosy cottage by the lake where I could grow my own vegetables, maybe have some chickens and live a quiet life away from the chaos and messiness of my past.
There had been offers on the property and land, good ones, and I'd refused them all. No, I had believed I could make it work. A healthy bit of elbow grease and effort and I would turn the old place into somewhere I could love.
Somewhere I could hide away from the world.
From him.
Prick that he was.
The Kingfisher Inn sat next to the road, a squat stone building with a cheerful sign and a wide front porch strung with fairy lights. The door was open, a heavyset woman with short, greying hair, and sour expression was sweeping ineffectually at the fallen leaves on the porch.
"Morning," I called, squinting up at the window with the 'vacancies' sign sitting in it. "You have rooms free?"
The woman heaved a sigh as she stopped her brushing and looked me up and down, then turned her gaze on the path I had been walking. Her expression was full of suspicion.
"We have," she said flatly, still eyeing the lane behind me.
I waited for her to add more and then frowned when I realised that was it.
"Okay… can I rent one?"
Another sigh.
"If you want."
Great. Welcoming neighbours.
I shook my head and followed her inside, pausing in the doorway as I breathed the fresh, clean air. No dust, no mothballs, just the slightly antiseptic smell of the cleaning products used that morning.
Stepping behind the bar, the woman took a key from a hook and pressed it down onto the bar. She pulled out a heavy ledger and pen.
"Name?"
"Eleanor," I said, offering a smile. "Most people call me, Ellie."
"Last name?"
Okay, I rolled my eyes a little there. The woman was not engaging at all. She did look tired, with dark circles around her eyes, a match to my own, though hers were deeper. Still, she seemed disengaged, lethargic, entirely without energy.
"Ashwood," I said.
Her eyes snapped up then, meeting mine as furrowed lines appeared on her brow.
"Any relation to Sylvia?"
"Yes! My great aunt. Did you know her?"
"We all did, love." The woman set down the pen. "Was sorry when she passed."
"Thank you." Another pause that stretched taut, and I felt the need to fill the gap. "I stayed at the house last night but, you know, it needs some work."
Maybe an exorcist too.
"Aye, no doubt."
I lifted my chin towards the key. "Ah… how much for the room?"
"How long you plan on staying?"
"A few days, just until I decide what I'm doing with the house."
"You thinking of selling?"
"Maybe."
I wasn't sure, to be honest. In the hard light of day, it seemed a bit silly running in fear of a bad dream and some creaky old floors. I was sure everything could be explained away with a bit of rational thinking.
Old houses made noises and when you were unfamiliar with them, they could easily sound worse than they were. Pipes rattled and shook, made thumping noises and the plumbing in that house was definitely beyond old.
Bad dreams caused by the stress and tension of the past few months, along with a strange environment and even stranger sounds.
It was all in my head, I was sure of it.
"There's a fellow comes in on a night. He's been curious about that place for a while. I'm sure he'd be interested in talking with you."
"Sure." I managed a shrug.
The woman passed over the key, sliding it across the bar. "Call me, Maggie," she said, and even managed a smile.
"Nice to meet you, Maggie."
"You too, love." She gestured towards a door beside the bar. "Up there, first on your right. Double room with ensuite facilities."
"Sounds amazing. How much?"
"Twenty-five a night, breakfast included."
I gaped at that.
"Is that all? Are you sure? I expected it to be more expensive."
Maggie shook her head. "Been a slow summer and we've not had much in the way of bookings. Those we had didn't stay long."
"Why's that?"
"Bad dreams." She snorted. "Been a lot of people complaining of the same. Just a change in weather I reckon."
"Sure. Maybe."
I grabbed my suitcase and glanced at Maggie once more. She did look tired. Like she hadn't been sleeping well.
Maybe there was something in the air. That would explain my bad dreams and poor nights sleep. Someone should look into that.
"Ah…" I licked my lips and glanced at Maggie. "Look, I may need to stay here while I get the house fixed up. It's in a bit of a worse state than I thought and my money will only stretch so far. I don't suppose you know if there's any jobs going nearby?"
"Most places don't need much staff at this time of year, but you're in luck if you know how to pull a pint."
"I do! Supported myself through Uni working in bars."
"All the students and summer staff have buggered off home. We cater more to locals these days, and I can't keep staff at the moment. If you want it, you can start tonight."
"Sounds great!"
"Minimum wage, mind," Maggie said. "Not sure how many shifts I can give you."
"Anything will help."
"Trial run tonight then, love. If it works out, will see what I can do for you."
"Thank you!"
I resisted the urge to pull Maggie into a hug. I was excited though. It was the first bit of good news I'd had for a while, and the first bit of kindness in a longer while than that.
Despite her sour disposition, I felt that there was a warm heart beating in the older woman's breast. A welcome change from the folk I'd had to deal with lately.
With a final smile, I headed up to my room. A nap and some rest would be enough to set me right, and then I could decide what I was going to do about that house.
And my mess of a life.