Her Dark Retreat: a psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming Read online

  Her Dark Retreat

  J. A. Baker

  Copyright © 2017 J.A. Baker

  The right of J.A. Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Contents

  Also By J.A. Baker

  Praise for Undercurrent:

  1. Before

  2. Now

  3. Alec

  4. Peggy

  5. Alec

  6. Peggy

  7. Audrey

  8. Alec

  9. Peggy

  10. Audrey

  11. Peggy

  12. Alec

  13. Maude

  14. Peggy

  15. Audrey

  16. Alec

  17. Peggy

  18. Audrey

  19. Maude

  20. Alec

  21. Peggy

  22. Audrey

  23. Before

  24. Peggy

  25. Brenda

  26. Alec

  27. Peggy

  28. Maude

  29. Before

  30. Audrey

  31. Alec

  32. Before

  33. Brenda

  34. Rachel

  35. Peggy

  36. Audrey

  37. Rachel

  38. Alec

  39. Peggy

  40. Audrey

  41. Peggy

  42. Maude

  43. Rachel

  44. Peggy

  45. Alec

  46. Peggy

  47. Audrey

  48. Peggy

  49. Alec

  50. Audrey

  51. Peggy

  52. Audrey

  53. Audrey

  Acknowledgments

  Also By J.A. Baker

  Undercurrent

  Praise for Undercurrent:

  'I struggle to believe that this is actually a debut novelist, the story is written with such assurity and fluidity that it has the feel of a more seasoned writer.' Sarah Kenny - The Great British Book Off

  'An extremely gripping read that was bound in mystery and atmosphere.' Alexina Golding - Bookstormer

  'From the haunting throwbacks to the past, to the tense and suffocating atmosphere in the present, this harrowing tale sweeps easily and effortlessly from start to finish...' Linda Green - Books Of All Kinds

  'This is a super book with only a small cast of characters that gets smaller the more you read. Fantastic!' Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn

  'In terms of the writing, Baker has a gift, a wonderful gift and I am so pleased that she has put pen to paper and delivered such a bloody impressive debut.' Emma Mitchell - Emma The Little Book Worm

  'This is an enjoyable debut with a fabulous prologue that really creates a desire to invest yourself fully in the plot as it unfolds.' Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree

  ‘‘If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”

  George Orwell 1984

  For Rosemary, the sister who nearly was. I hope you found your way home.

  1

  Before

  Huge pulsating waves of pain exploding in my head. I drag my eyelids apart, try to focus properly, look around; work out where I am. Darkness everywhere. Nothing to see. No shadows, not even a vague outline of anything recognisable. Just complete blackness. Am I awake? Am I dead? I wait; my breath uneven, irregular. Pockets of hot air fall back on my face, shrouding me in a sticky, warm mist. I continue to stare, my eyes sore and gritty. Still nothing. No focus or adjustment to my surroundings. Zero. I cough and splutter as my body gradually rouses itself. My chest is tight and I feel like I’m suffocating. It’s quiet. So very, very quiet. I lie still, listening for something - anything at all; any familiar sound to stem my rising fear - the chirrup of birdsong, the north-easterly wind roaring across the fields or rushing through the trees, the distant murmur of people. But there’s no sound to be heard from anywhere. Just a lingering silence. My thoughts begin to clear, the fog inside my head lifts as I slowly come round. I have no idea where I am. I’m not in bed. No blankets or sheets covering me. And I am freezing; so very, very cold - my extremities like ice. I grope around, my fingers hitting something concrete-like above. I trail them over the surface - firm, craggy, wet; dripping with condensation. I continue moving them in an arc down to the ground. Narrow. It’s all very narrow. Too much so. And the smell - an odour of petrichor. The earthy scent of rain and damp. I shift and wince as something jagged and sharp digs into my back. It’s a hard surface, like rock. Rock? I frown. Pain whistles through my skull as I blink and shuffle about. Why am I on the ground? I move about some more and attempt to sit up only to find the space is too confined to do anything. I hit my head and am forced back down. More pain. Like shards of glass tearing at my skin. What the hell is this - some kind of joke? I try to control my breathing. It begins to escalate into heavy, uncontrollable gasps for air as reality hits and panic sets in. God almighty. Surely not? I begin to scramble about, a jumble of panicky, uncoordinated limbs grappling for purchase, coming up against an immovable surface. My head pounds. Blood surges through my ears making me nauseous. Solidity surrounds me. This is my worst nightmare. Why can’t I move? Where the fuck am I? A slow, sickening dawning washes over me. I’m dead. I must be. It’s all too much for my brain to take in. Things like this only happen to people in books or movies. But not to me; please don’t let this be happening to me. I can’t bring myself to think about it, but as I try to sit up once more and stretch my arms out, the enormity of what is happening to me forces its way into my mind like white hot shrapnel. Jesus Christ, this is real. This is actually happening to me. I can’t move. I am trapped. My vision blurs and flames lick at my aching brain as the words balloon in my mind. I’ve been buried alive.

  Where was I last? A memory pierces my thoughts, jolting me out of my groggy, soporific state. Raised voices; an argument. A really bad argument. Hitting, scratching, shrieking. A sudden, sharp pain. Then nothing. I pant hard, trying to recall who the argument was with or what it was about. Who in God's name do I know that would do this to me? I lead a normal life. Or at least I think I do. Everything is so muddled and dark. Fragments of thoughts and memories floating about, disjointed and shadowy, flitting in and out of my consciousness. Like a really bad dream. Or my worst nightmare.

  I bring my hands up and try to feel for something behind me. They meet with a cold draught. I gradually begin to move my legs, gaining momentum till I am thrashing them about as much as I can. Same again. Great wedges of icy air that bite at my clammy, exposed skin. My feet are starting to go numb. I swallow hard, trying to control my racing heartbeat. Not in a box then - or god forbid, a coffin - more like some sort of tunnel. Hope mingles with horror as the awfulness of it all begins to dawn on me. Even if I can shuffle and propel myself along, which way do I go? What if I end up deeper in this godforsaken place? Dread and terror begins to overwhelm me. If I do nothing, I will die here. Wherever here is. Am I underground? Fear muddies my t
hinking. A cave perhaps? Pain claws at my temples as blood pulses through my veins, growling in my ears. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. I need to get out - and quickly. With as much effort as I can, I use my elbows and pelvis to push myself forwards, my heels snagging on pieces of sharp ground with every tiny infinitesimal movement. It takes an age to move the smallest distance but I keep telling myself that it’s better than doing nothing. Better than lying here waiting for the air to run out and death to take me. My throat closes up at the thought and I begin to gag. Before I have a chance to stop it, I retch - my body convulsing violently, my stomach heaving and cramping. Tears streaming, I turn my head to one side and let it escape, a slick of warm vomit trailing over my cheek, sticking in my hair, pooling under my head. My brain throbs and I’m consumed by an almighty thirst. How the fuck did this happen? More to the point - who did this to me? Have I been kidnapped? Raped? I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes closed, forcing it all away, the pain and the horror, then open them again. I have to do this. I need to get out of here. A sudden rush of anger bursts into my brain, infusing me with enough energy to continue forcing myself forwards. Got to keep going, ignore the thirst and the pain and the fear. Just keep going. I don’t want to die - I refuse to die. Not here in this horrific place. I begin to sob, first softly then uncontrollably as hysteria finally takes hold. Dear God I don’t think I can stand it. Please don’t let me die.

  2

  Now

  Peggy

  Spray crashes against the rocks three hundred feet below her, the sound muffled and muted by the recently fitted window in the tiny kitchen. Peggy stares out, trance like, her eyes drawn to the horizon - an indistinct, blurry line shrouded in mist. She watches the sea, sees how it bounces and sways. This is her spot, the place she stands and stares out most days to admire its vastness and power. The blackness of the water always gets to her, gnaws away at her innermost fears highlighting her insignificance when compared to the forces of nature. She imagines the sheer weight of it, dark and oppressive, forcing her down, compressing her skull, her body helpless against the relentless drag of the tide. She turns away and quashes the very thought of it. She has no idea why she allows herself to think such morbid thoughts. Chamber Cottage is after all, a dream home; their dream home. A place of tranquillity and beauty with outstanding views according to all the brochures they saw prior to buying it, so it must be, mustn’t it? .Built in the early 19th century with constant damp problems and a leaking roof, Chamber Cottage also has its many disadvantages, and if the local rumours are to be believed, a whole host of secrets. Peggy wanted to laugh out loud when she heard that one. What house doesn’t have secrets? Especially a two-hundred-year-old one. But Alec fell for it; all the gossip and supposition, the purported tales of smuggling and corruption that took place right here in their kitchen. He also swears blind he’s seen something, someone. Shadows, flickering movements, nothing he can quite put his finger on. For a sensible, level headed man he often comes out with some nonsense. Peggy is convinced the lady at the estate agents did too good a job of selling them the idea of an old coastguard’s cottage with a dark history. ‘A house with a chequered past’ were her words. Peggy puffs out her cheeks and grabs a handful of damp kitchen roll, dragging it across the worktop as she attempts to eradicate every last crumb and sticky particle from last night’s supper. Alec should know better but thoroughly enjoys a bit of drama, a stupid story he can regale people with. He probably even tells his pupils this stuff. She can imagine him, keeping them amused with his stories of ghosts and smugglers come to take back their hidden goods, the kids’ eyes wide, fascinated by it all. Peggy often thinks he missed his vocation in life and should have been an entertainer of some sort, not a teacher. Of course, he would argue that they’re both the same thing.

  She stops mid wipe and looks out again at the gathering storm heading in from the west. It may blow over, it may not. The weather that hovers over the North Sea is nothing if not unpredictable. It’s a daily guessing game, working out what sort of conditions they can expect to have thrown their way. She tugs at the blinds as if trying to keep the elements at bay, then shivers and finishes cleaning up. Lathering her hands in moisturiser, she sits down at the table in their more amply sized dining room and switches her computer on. At least working from home has its benefits during the gloomy, wintry seasons; no having to set out in the dark each and every morning to battle against the horrendous howling gales that pummel the front of their cottage. No having to drive off, freezing and windswept in a never-ending stream of traffic to get to a job you most likely hate. Plenty of people do. But not Peggy. This is her office, the place where she does all her thinking. Her fortress. A prison of her own making.

  A chill filters down through the open fireplace. The hairs on her arms stand to attention in protest at the cold. She considers lighting a fire but knows only too well that one blast of wind will fill the house with the dusty stench of ash, an acrid odour that will cling to her clothes and all the soft furnishings, resulting in a long and arduous bout of cleaning to eliminate it. She pulls her cardigan tighter around her body and drags the chair closer to the table telling herself that the sense she has of not being alone in this house is all in the mind. A figment of her imagination. She’s an author. Dark thoughts are her bread and butter; her mind is constantly focused on death and fear. Why wouldn’t she feel uneasy from time to time, when she spends all day, every day, writing about murder and gore? She shrugs the sensation off, thinking about how she laughs at Alec and his talk of lurking shadows while here she is, convinced someone is watching her. She has to stop this. It is childish nonsense. She has work to do. Updating her website is her first job, stopping only to get another cardigan before finally relenting and turning up the heating thermostat. Damn this freezing cottage and its determined attempts to bankrupt them.

  By mid-day she has completed her blog and written a good, solid chapter of her next book, pleased with its twists and turns and flowing style, and is ready for coffee. Behind her the growl and occasional hiss of their ancient boiler kicks in. She stops and listens to it, silently pleading with a greater deity for it to see them through the winter. April. That’s when it can finally breathe its last. April; when it will be warmer and they’ll have money saved up to replace it. By then her third book will have been published and Alec’s new salary from his recent promotion will have had a few months to gather in the bank. That’s the plan anyway. Peggy drapes a hand over her eye and drags it through her hair. She takes a deep breath and snaps her laptop closed. Experience tells her that even the best laid plans have a tendency to go awry.

  The chair scrapes across the flagstone floor as she pushes it back and stands up. The rush of the sea far below her gains impetus. The storm is almost upon them. She can feel it in her bones. A glance at the barometer hanging on the wall over the sink says it all - a sharp plummet since last night; the dial indicating a severe weather change is about to take hold. She shuffles off into the kitchen and flings the fridge door open. A row of bare shelves stare back at her. Their weekly grocery shop is long overdue. She should have done it by now but couldn’t quite muster up the strength, and online shopping is beyond her. The last time she had a go at it, the metric weights had her completely flummoxed and she ended up with enough bananas to start her own plantation, so she now does it in person despite hating every minute of it. Shopping is an ordeal. For Peggy, leaving the house is an ordeal. There are days when she looks in the mirror and sees an average looking young woman staring back at her; if she keeps the lights dimmed, strategically angles the blinds and narrows her eyes that is. Then other days … well, those other days see her holed up in her cottage, too low to go out and face the world with all its pitfalls and reminders of what a truly awful place it can often be. But not today. She reaches up to her face and carefully traces the lines of her scars. They may fade over time but the memory of how they got there will never leave her. Sometimes she visualises them as stretching over her entir
e face, growing and morphing until they are so vivid and so shocking, she has no features left worth speaking of - just a mass of angry red welts. Today however, her mind is in a better place; not so fragile, ready to desert her at the slightest provocation. A staring shop assistant, whispers from insensitive people, the pointing fingers of innocent children. They all mount up, gather in the shady corners of her mind until she can no longer take it and her brain shatters into a million, tiny pieces. That won’t happen on today’s outing. She is feeling stronger, more resilient. Today she will do her level best to put the past behind her. Exactly where it belongs.

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  It’s back again. Peggy stands, empty shopping bags tucked under her arm, key held tight between her fingers, feeling her chest tighten a fraction. She cleaned it yesterday. And the day before. How can it have appeared once more? This is complete madness. She reaches down and places her fingers on the stain that is covering the back step. Dry to the touch. Shoving the car keys in her coat pocket, she flings the door open again and storms back into the kitchen, suddenly furious. This is utterly ridiculous. How many applications of bleach is it going to take for this thing to disappear? Grabbing the bottle, Peggy heads back out, twisting the cap off with more force than is necessary, then stands at the back door and watches as a stream of the viscous, clear liquid covers the brown mark and spreads out slowly over the old, stone step. She shakes her head despairingly. If this doesn’t clear it, nothing will. Leaning in, Peggy snatches at the brush hanging next to the door and begins to scrub in a vicious circular motion, a creamy lather quickly forming, turning the entire step into a rectangular, white slab of foam. Her back and arms ache as she continues to drag the brush back and forth, round and round, refusing to give up until sweat coats her face despite the icy wind that has picked up and is swirling round the cottage. Standing up with an exhausted grunt, she heads back inside and comes back with a jug of hot water. She rinses away the foam, careful to aim the water so it doesn’t spill over inside the cottage. She doesn’t imagine that two-hundred-year-old flagstone flooring will take kindly to half a bottle of bleach being thrown on it. She continues to swill the step; jugful after jugful of hot water, watching as it rinses everything away. Then standing stock still, hands on hips, she surveys the newly cleaned step. The mark has gone. For now. Windows, masonry, even the paintwork on her car - they all struggle against the elements up here, the wild winds and salt air eating away at them day after day, an army of invisible mouths slowly nibbling into metal and bricks unrelentingly, yet a small stain refuses to vanish. She pointed it out to Alec a few days back. He dismissed her remarks, reckoned it was scarcely visible, said it was all in her mind. He always knows exactly what to say; chooses each word with excruciating precision. To her it stuck out like a sore thumb. A vivid mark like a blemish on her soul. She isn’t even sure why she mentioned it. It’s not as if they don’t have other things to focus on. He shrugged it off. Said it wasn’t important. Anyway, cleaning this place isn’t his job. It’s hers. Peggy is the one who does it all, the sweeping, wiping, washing, ironing. Some days it seems like a never-ending chore. Some days she can hardly bring herself to get out of bed, never mind clean up. She gives the step one last quick glance before locking up and getting into the car. There are times lately when life seems so bloody difficult. She has to make sure today isn’t one of those days.