The Woman in the Woods Page 7

  It’s too late for the children. I can feel it. Goosebumps ripple along my arms, tugging the hairs on my skin to attention as the icy breeze brushes past me, laying cold clammy hands on the bare skin of my feet. I think if I breathe out, I will see my breath in front of me in plumes of smoky grey, swirling ghostly clouds to watch over me as I do the unthinkable. My bare feet are numb as I take another step along the staircase, sliding my hand along the pitted, rough plaster of the walls. Glancing down I see the ragged edges of my shirt, greying and pilled, and I pause to pull the sleeves further down over my hands, trying to stop the chill that embraces my skin. The fabric is too thin, too worn. I’m so cold. I feel as if I have forgotten what it is to feel the heat of the sun on my body. I let myself remember, just for a second, the feel of warm sun on my face, the sweat collecting at the base of my neck as it beats down overhead, before shaking it away. I have a job to do. I can see into the room at the top of the stairs, the moonlight that puddles on the landing casting an eerie silver glow. I can see the slight hump in the bed, the blanket that drapes over the foot, the fronds of her dark hair that spill across the pillow. The blue knit of the wool, the fraying-edge ribbon picked out by the thin light that illuminates the room, trickling in from the open landing.

  I stop, a rabbit on red alert, my ears pricking. Is there someone else here? I thought I was alone; I need to be alone in order to do this. My muscles ache as I hold my position, listening, but there is only silence. I strain my ears, sure that there should be some noise, someone else in the house, convinced I heard a door somewhere, the creak of a hinge, but nothing. Just the faint breaths coming from the room ahead of me. I know, without really knowing, that it is just them and me in the house, and no one is going to disturb me. No one is going to stop me, not if I act fast.

  I trail my fingers over the smooth wood of the bannister, the wood warm beneath my cold fingers, almost as if it’s still alive, the air around me so icy cold. The feel of the wood under my fingertips feels familiar, an action I have carried out a hundred times a day. I feel as if I should know this place inside out, but it is strange, unnerving, as if I have walked through the looking glass and I half wish I hadn’t come here. I don’t recognize the shadows on the wall of the bedroom in front of me as I reach the threshold, my hand pushing the door all the way open, even as they rearrange themselves to form some sort of picture on the otherwise bland walls.

  The smell in the air catches at the back of my throat, and I raise my hand, covered with the sleeve of my shirt, to my nose, the thin cotton doing a poor job of blocking it out. It is thick, laying heavy in the air, like a layer of oil on water. My temples thud, sharp pain pulsing through my head and my stomach does a long, low swoop, my mouth filling with saliva. I struggle to keep focus on my thoughts, on what I am about to do. Fog descends and I fumble wildly for the doorframe to steady myself. I’m not sure what I am about to do, but I know it has to be done. That this is the only solution. The baby shifts and mutters, his tiny fists punching the air, and I close my eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  Rav doesn’t come home until long after the children are asleep and I am in bed. I mumble at him as the mattress dips with his weight, waiting for him to ask how my day was, but he doesn’t. He slides into bed, landing a kiss on my hair before he rolls over without a word. Inhaling, I open my mouth to speak, to tell him about what I saw in the woods, but before I can say anything his breath rasps in a light snore and I close my mouth again. With the faint thud of a headache starting behind my eyes, I will sleep to pull me under, before waking two hours later with Leo’s cries, my nerve endings prickling with the remnants of the dream. The same dream. I shiver as I hold the baby close, Rav still snoring beside me. I can see myself, my feet on the stairs, knowing that the children are asleep above me, knowing that once I reach that room something is going to happen, something awful. But it’s not me, I think, letting my forehead wrinkle in a frown, that nagging feeling still in the pit of my stomach. Whoever it is, it’s not me.

  Rav is gone when I wake in the morning, the headache still there, pulsing at my temples as the baby begins to murmur in his crib. I didn’t think I would sleep again after the dream, but I did, deeply and thankfully dreamlessly. Now, I feel groggy and disappointed that Rav didn’t wake me before he left. I wanted to tell him about what I saw in the woods. My eyes go to the dresser, combing the piles of junk that have accumulated on the top for the feather and keys, my palm remembering the weight of the stone when the baby shouts, a sharp, angry yell to remind me that he is the priority, not a figure in the woods, not junk found under the floorboards.

  The morning is another bright and sunny one, the sun warm on my shoulders as I walk Mina to nursery. I plan to come back and head into the garden, determined not to let the figure in the trees put me off what needs to be done there. The baby can lie on a blanket in the shade, and I will rid the borders of the weeds, and maybe even mow the lawn when the baby goes upstairs for a nap. I have shaken off the uneasiness that I woke up with, driven away by the cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine. My plans change though, when I arrive at the nursery and realize it is Friday – and that I had said I would go to the baby group with Tara and Karen. Tara hasn’t forgotten, and when I reach the door, waving madly at Mina who ignores me, she smiles.

  ‘I’m glad you agreed to come, it’s nice to have a new mum in the group,’ Tara says as we walk across the car park. ‘Karen has gone on ahead to make sure the tea urn is on and we have biscuits in.’ She goes on to tell me that she started the baby group herself, when her eldest was born as there wasn’t one around here. I nod politely, telling myself that this is what I wanted – I wanted adult company during the day. It’s either this or back to the cottage and the figure in the woods.

  The small room to the side of the church is filled with mothers and babies, ranging from newborn up to around toddler age. Small plastic toys litter the floor, along with baby mats, baby gyms and a couple of play pens, both occupied with chubby older babies.

  I take my thin cardigan off, sweating in the heat of the small room, the chatter around me louder than I was expecting, reminiscent of a school hall at lunchtime. I scoop the baby out of the pram and carry him across to where Karen has saved us seats.

  ‘I put the baby mat down for the babies,’ Tara says pointedly, as she stands in front of me, clutching two mugs of tea. I glance down, noticing a tiny patch of dried sick on the corner of the mat, and hold the baby a little closer.

  ‘I think he’ll cry if I put him down,’ I say, and Tara shrugs, passing the mug that I assumed was for me to a woman I don’t recognize. Tara takes her own seat and then starts introducing me to the other women, as I frantically try to remember names, quite unsuccessfully.

  ‘And this is Miranda.’ Tara gestures to the woman she handed the mug to. Miranda is slightly older, her hair greying at the temples although she can barely be forty, the bottom half of it tinted a faded greeny-blue. She wears a patchwork-style dress and a pair of battered Doc Martens, the kind of uniform I wore as a teenager. I feel a moment of kinship with her, recognizing in her an inkling of the same lost feeling I am experiencing. I give her a small smile and she looks down at the mug in her hand, before raising it to her lips, not returning my smile.

  I don’t say much, as the women chatter as if they haven’t seen each other for months, rather than a few days. There are comparisons between babies at every stage – which ones are weaning, which are sleeping through the night (the majority of them, by the sounds of it), which can sit up, roll over, crawl. I lower my face to the baby’s, breathing in his soft, milky smell and thank my lucky stars he’s not old enough to be judged on any of this yet.

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?’ Miranda’s breath smells like coffee as she leans forward to speak to me in an urgent whisper, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard.

  ‘Maybe?’ I say, sure I don’t know her. ‘I work … well, I’m on maternity leave, but I work at The Daisy Cha
in. I’m a florist.’

  ‘Yes.’ She eyes me closely, before her gaze flickers down to the baby. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve seen you. Have you been in the village long?’

  ‘Allie only moved here a few months ago,’ Tara butts in, ‘with her husband and daughter.’ She has answered before I can even open my mouth to speak. She comes and sits next to me, leaning against my shoulder chummily and I realize Tara is almost staking her claim as my friend. ‘How is Rav?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Working. Busy, you know.’

  ‘Where do you live in the village, Allie?’ another woman asks, a polar opposite to Miranda. This woman is like Tara, well groomed, her hair sleek and she sports a perfect face of make-up.

  ‘Gowdie Cottage, at the end of the lane. We’re on the outskirts, really.’ Miranda mutters something under her breath, something I can’t quite catch.

  ‘Oh.’ The woman sits forward in her chair, suddenly intent on the plastic ring her baby is chewing on.

  ‘Allie hasn’t been here long, she probably hasn’t heard the stories,’ Tara says blithely. ‘Although surely the estate agent must have told you, I mean, it’s common knowledge round here. Everyone knows the stories about Gowdie Cottage, that’s why it was on the market for so long. Ray Watts must have been over the moon when you two put an offer in.’

  ‘Sorry, Tara, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ I look between her and the other women in confusion. ‘I mean, I’ve heard things about Pluckley, who hasn’t, right?’ I push out a small laugh. ‘The Colonel who committed suicide in the woods and still roams about the village? And you can’t really miss the ghosthunters, but there isn’t any story about Gowdie Cottage. Not that I’ve heard.’ Miranda keeps avoiding my eye, and any sense of kinship I had with her drifts away. Surely whatever it is can’t be that bad – wouldn’t the estate agent have had to reveal it if something dreadful had happened in the house? An uneasy feeling begins to prick its way up my spine, and I nudge my bag with my foot, checking it’s close by, already anxious to leave.

  ‘The witch house,’ Miranda says quietly. ‘You’re living in the witch house.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘It’s called Gowdie Cottage after Agnes Gowdie. She lived there,’ Miranda says, drawing breath to say more but Tara shoots her a look and her mouth snaps closed.

  ‘The witch house!’ I laugh, looking from Tara to Miranda and back again. ‘You’re … are you serious?’

  ‘It’s just a story,’ Tara says, but Miranda looks down at her hands, picking at the skin around her nails without saying anything. ‘A silly village legend like the others. You’ll hear all sorts of ghost stories now you’re here. It’s up to you whether you want to believe them or not.’

  ‘Right. A legend. Of course.’ I smile, but I am thinking of the scene that popped into my mind before, of a woman, dressed in dark clothing, standing in the doorway to my cottage. ‘I don’t believe in all of that.’ I pause. ‘Not really.’ As I say the words, I feel that same unsettling feeling wash over me, the way it did when I woke this morning, the dream etched behind my eyes. ‘Tara, it was lovely of you to invite me – us – this morning, but I should probably get going. I’ve still got a lot to do – unpacking, you know …’ I get to my feet and place the baby back into his pram, laying the blanket loosely over him and, raising a hand to the other women, I call out, ‘Lovely to meet you!’ and walk quickly towards the door.

  ‘Allie, wait.’ Tara follows me as I reach the door, one hand already pushing it open. ‘I hope we didn’t upset you. Miranda can be … well, she can be a bit intense sometimes.’

  ‘I’m not upset,’ I say. ‘I forgot Mina has … a doctor’s appointment. I have to go and collect her early. Sorry, it totally slipped my mind.’

  Tara looks at me for a moment, head on one side. ‘Are you sure? It’s just a story you know, and it’s just what it’s like around here. Everyone has a ghost story to tell.’

  ‘No, of course, I know it’s just a story.’ I turn back to where Miranda is talking to one of the other mothers. As if she feels my eyes on her she looks up and I look away quickly, back to Tara. ‘I hope I haven’t offended Miranda, saying that I didn’t believe.’

  Tara shakes her head. ‘Ahh no, she’ll be fine. She’s the only one out of all of us who is really invested in it – the rest of us don’t take it quite so seriously. It’s just part of living here. I’ll see you at drop-off on Monday?’ I nod and wheel the baby out of the too-warm hall, round to the door for the preschool, trying to shake off the cold feeling that wraps its way around me every time I think of Miranda saying Agnes Gowdie.

  After giving the nursery workers the same excuse – that Mina has a doctor’s appointment – I decide to walk us home the long way through the village, on the road that takes us along the High Street. Knowing what I know now about the cottage, I am in no rush to head home, Miranda’s words about the witch house tumbling over and over in my mind. There is an itching under my skin when I think about it, the jumble of feathers and keys, weighted by the hag stone springing to mind. Legend, I tell myself, as Mina chatters along beside me, that’s all. I think of the flash of white moving through the trees, moving in a way that seems, the more I think about it, unnatural, not right.

  I meander up the road with Mina until we reach the front of The Daisy Chain. Naomi has put buckets of fresh flowers outside, so many that they are crowded together, the flowers jostling against each other as a heady scent rises in the late morning sunshine. Tulips rub up against cabbage roses, freesias snug against the nodding heads of white daisies, while bright sunflowers stand guard over them all. Longing sweeps over me, so fierce I can only describe it as a kind of homesickness, and I manoeuvre the pram through the doorway into the tiny floor space inside. Naomi is serving a customer, but she looks up as I enter and flashes me a quick smile, wiggling her fingers in a wave at Mina. I wait patiently, jiggling the pram to keep the baby sleeping, and gently tapping Mina on the wrist as she tries to stroke the delicate petals of a stargazer lily, while Naomi wraps brown paper and string around the pot of a pink azalea and hands it to her customer.

  ‘Allie, what are you doing here?’ She comes around from behind the counter and embraces me. I relax into her hug and inhale the earthy, woody scent that comes from her clothes. So familiar, I used to come home smelling the same. ‘Mina, come here to me.’ Naomi lets me go and scoops Mina up onto her hip and we all follow her through into the back room.

  I cast my eyes around as Naomi fills the kettle and switches it on, dropping a teabag into two mugs without even asking me if I want one. It’s changed slightly since I left eight weeks ago. It is untidier, more chaotic, with wire clippings littering the floor and rolls of brown paper stacked on the metal work surface, next to a tangled ball of brown garden string. My fingers itch to start tidying, to put things back in their proper place, but it’s not my job at the moment so I accept the mug Naomi hands me and say nothing.

  ‘Where’s the new girl?’ I ask. I wasn’t expecting Naomi to be on her own and had been hoping we could get some lunch together. I want to bounce Miranda’s witch house comment off her, to see what her reaction is.

  Naomi shrugs. ‘She called in sick. She’s not been too reliable to be honest. I can’t see her lasting.’

  ‘I can always help out.’

  Naomi laughs. ‘Don’t be silly, Al, you’ve got enough on your plate with these two to look after. Not that I wouldn’t swap with you tomorrow if I could.’ She sobers, and I know what she’s going to ask me. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Mina, you want to watch Peppa?’ Ignoring Naomi’s frown, I hand Mina my phone and she sits cross-legged in the corner, immediately enthralled by a little talking pig. ‘A woman just referred to my house as the witch house.’

  ‘Huh? What do you mean?’

  ‘A woman at the baby group … she said Rav and I are “living in the witch house”.’ I sigh, peering down into my mug at the milky brown liquid. ‘She said it’s called
Gowdie Cottage after someone named Agnes Gowdie.’

  ‘Who is Agnes Gowdie?’ Naomi frowns as she wraps a length of brown twine into a ball.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘A witch?’

  Naomi lets out a peal of laughter that makes the baby jump in his sleep. ‘Oh God, Allie, that’s hilarious. The witch house.’ She shakes her head, her laughter dying away as she realizes I’m not laughing with her. She looks at me askance. ‘You don’t believe them? Allie, come on. I didn’t think you were the type to buy into all that kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t.’ My words are petulant, her laughter stinging my skin. ‘It’s just … a bit unnerving, that’s all. She was deadly serious.’

  ‘People believe in that stuff round here; they’ve all grown up on it,’ Naomi says matter-of-factly. ‘It’s all rubbish, Al, all of it. I’ve never seen anything in the village, have you?’

  I pause, hesitant to say it out loud. ‘The person in the woods?’

  ‘Just someone out walking. You know the woods aren’t secure; they might be attached to your house but anyone can walk through them.’

  ‘I know but … I saw them again, the person in the woods.’ I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘The way they moved … it was …’ Frightening, is what I want to say but I don’t. ‘And then there are the keys.’

  ‘Keys? What keys? You didn’t tell me about any keys.’ Naomi puts the ball of twine on the counter, where it immediately rolls to the floor and unravels. She tuts and rolls her eyes but leaves it, taking a seat opposite me.

  ‘You know I found the mirror? There was something in the floorboards underneath it.’ I tell her about the way I had tugged at the feather, the weight of the stone and how the keys didn’t fit any doors in the house. ‘Rav says it’s an old homemade keyring but I don’t think so.’