PROLOGUE
Alison King swallowed nervously as she looked around the wood-panelled hall. Oil paintings covered the walls. On her first day at Chidlow House, she’d made the mistake of taking a close look at the artwork. It was disturbing. The hunting scenes were violent, and the portraits were odd. Stern-faced men and miserable women were scattered among the bloodthirsty canvases.
She shuddered. It was just a house. A big, grand, empty house, but a house all the same. The Chidlow family had a long, chequered history, which delighted the teenage students Alison was teaching. At lunchtime she’d overheard them sharing ghost stories about the Drowned Lady. Of course, she didn’t believe in ghosts. She was a grown-up, not a naive, pliable teenager. But there was something about this house . . .
Giving herself a mental shake, she squared her shoulders and walked on. The smells of old wood and dust from the thick curtains hung in the air as she walked past a large window which looked out on to the extensive gardens. It had a large windowsill with a cushioned seat, in theory a perfect reading nook. Somewhere to curl up and disappear into a novel. In daylight, the house didn’t seem nearly as scary. The sun streamed in through the large pane of glass and the view across the lawns to the lake was undoubtedly beautiful. But when the shadows began to lengthen and the creaks and groans of the old house took on an ominous tone, it was the last place Alison wanted to read. No, she couldn’t imagine curling up and reading in a spot like this. Alison hadn’t read more than a couple of pages since she’d arrived. She hadn’t been able to relax enough to enter a fictional world, because that meant letting her guard down and she couldn’t do that. Not here.
The house was oppressive. Malevolent.
Where had that thought come from? A house couldn’t do any harm. The people in it, on the other hand . . .
She paused and turned in a circle, confused, sure she’d heard something – dripping water, a whisper. She stood still, her ears straining against the silence, but heard nothing. She was alone.
This place was making her hypersensitive. It wasn’t like her to be so skittish. Once she made it to her room, she could bolt the door and feel safe. But she couldn’t go to her room yet. She had some important information for the director of the study programme.
Last night she’d heard water trickling in the old pipes and scratching behind the walls. The scratching had probably been mice. Rodents creeping in through cracks and crevices wouldn’t be unusual in a house of this age and size. That was the logical explanation. But at night, her mind played fanciful tricks, and though she didn’t believe in spirits or otherworldly beings, the noises meant she’d stayed awake most of the night.
A house she’d shared in her student days had had a rodent problem. They’d been nesting in the loft insulation and chewed through various wires, causing untold damage.
She was annoyed at herself for getting spooked. When the students spoke about the haunting of Chidlow House they did so in awed, thrilled whispers. They weren’t scared of the Drowned Lady. If a group of teenagers could get through a week in the old house without having a panic attack, surely she could do the same. After all, she was the one who was supposed to be responsible for their welfare.
Earlier two of the students had asked if she’d heard the sound of dripping water and whispering last night.
She hadn’t been able to reply at first. Then she’d stammered something about how the gurgling of the pipes was the most logical reason for the odd noises. The students accepted her explanation readily enough, but she hadn’t really convinced herself.
It could be one of the students playing a practical joke. She wouldn’t be surprised. Teenage boys often made very odd efforts to gain attention from their female peers. Or her first guess could be correct – gurgling pipes. Air trapped within them could cause knocking or other unusual sounds. Perhaps the noise was from an animal? They could make all sorts of strange noises. She’d read that foxes could make a sound like a baby crying.
With a sigh of relief she realised she’d reached the corridor leading to Graham Doyle’s suite. She needed to talk to the programme director as soon as possible. Though she would have liked to leave the matter until morning, it really couldn’t wait. Handling the problem was way above her pay grade. Doyle could do it. He was immensely proud of holding the study week at Chidlow House and would want to know if there was a chance something could tarnish the programme’s reputation.
Only a few days left, Alison told herself as she walked along the narrow hallway. She could cope with a few more days. She would never do this again though, no matter how good the money was. The stress simply wasn’t worth it.
She’d only taken a few steps when a flash of something white streaked across the end of the corridor, in front of the window.
Her limbs froze and she couldn’t even take a breath, let alone call for help.
What was that? It was no mouse or gurgling pipes. She’d definitely seen something, a figure in white racing along the hall.
She turned around desperately, looking for someone else who could have seen the apparition. Doyle’s room was only a few feet away. But her legs refused to move. Her feet felt like they were bolted to the floor.
She forced herself to take a breath, clenched her fists in her pockets.
No, she wouldn’t ask Doyle for help. When she’d mentioned the noises to him earlier, he’d looked at her as though she’d lost her marbles and then patronisingly patted her hand.
Don’t panic. Think logically. There’s no such thing as ghosts so it must be a student messing about.
‘Who’s there?’ she called. She was trying to make her voice sound authoritative, but it came out reedy and weak, and she sounded exactly how she felt – scared.
Gathering all her courage, she rushed forward just as all the lights went off.
Plunged into darkness, she stopped, paralysed by fear. Something moved past her. There wasn’t enough light from the window to see anything, but she felt the rush of air as it passed.
‘What? Who was that?’ She didn’t even try to hide the fear in her voice this time.
A second later, the lights came back on. Alison took a breath. Then she heard the whispering again. A door opened.
She felt sick.
It had to be a student playing a practical joke. That was the only explanation that made sense. Her fear ebbed away and was replaced by anger. It really wasn’t funny. Turning off the lights like that could have resulted in someone getting hurt. The carpet along the hallway was threadbare in parts and crumpled in others. Definitely a tripping hazard. Especially in the dark.
At the end of the corridor was a rickety old staircase that would have been used by the servants more than a hundred years ago. What if someone had taken a wrong turn in the dark and tumbled down the stairs?
She walked quickly to the door, which had been left ajar. It led to the roof. Alison smiled. They clearly weren’t as clever as they thought. This was the only entrance and exit to the roof.
She’d been up there several times, sneaking a cigarette, as Doyle had banned the students and teachers smoking anywhere near Chidlow House. She climbed the narrow staircase, determined to locate the practical joker.
She pushed open the upper door, struggling as the wind was ferocious up here. She staggered outside as the blustery wind whipped her hair around her face. Scanning the area, she quickly ruled out the possibility of someone hiding on the pitched portion of the roof. It was far too steep and the slate tiles were too slippery.