Cover

Praise

Praise for The Hiding Place

‘Haunting and atmospheric, The Hiding Place lingers in the dark spaces of a home as Amanda Mason deftly crafts a steady, creeping tension. As the Elder House’s secrets are revealed, Mason shines a brilliant light on the unsettling extents of desire’

A.J. Gnuse, author of Girl in the Walls

‘Satisfyingly unsettling, this is a hugely atmospheric novel that oozes with uncanny menace’

Lucie McKnight Hardy

‘A really convincing ghost story. Elder House, like Shirley Jackson’s Hill House, evoked a chilling and eerie sense of past mystery and unhappiness. I was completely pulled along by the narrative and read it in a fevered rush’

Zoë Somerville, author of The Night of the Flood

‘The Hiding Place is the perfect modern ghost story— evocative, unsettling and genuinely spine-tingling’ Katie Lowe, author of The Furies ‘The Hiding Place has everything; chills that build, an immersive setting and a wonderful clash between the present and the past, the living and the dead. At the heart of this haunting novel are characters so real and compelling their stories continue to resonate long after reading’

Jess Kidd

‘Full of intrigue, with hidden agendas, lingering resentments and thwarted desires, this sinister tale is dripping with an insidious malice that is sure to leave readers unsettled’

Anita Frank, author of The Lost Ones

‘The Hiding Place is a tense, creepy novel that vibrates with mystery. A page-turning, spine-tingling horror story perfect for a windy night’

Inga Vesper, author of The Long, Long Afternoon

‘Tense, atmospheric and suffused with the peculiar longing of motherhood’

Araminta Hall

Dedication

For my mum, Sylvia, with love.

There was no signal. Of course there wasn’t; there never was here. The house was too close to the cliff, overshadowed by it. But still she gripped the phone tightly, staring at the screen, willing the little bars at the top to fill up, trying to think.

The kitchen was a mess, and she was sitting on the floor, backed up against the cupboard under the sink, her legs splayed out – not very elegant, not very ladylike – and she could smell blood.

No. That was just her stupid imagination.

Get a grip, she thought, her fingers aching as she clutched the phone in both hands. Get a grip, get up and – she paused, lifted her head, listened.

It was faint, too faint to be sure, but wasn’t that . . . ? She strained to hear. Couldn’t she hear someone upstairs, moving slowly, deliberately along the first-floor landing?

Now, she thought, her heart hammering. Get up now.

She’d put it back, hadn’t she? She found herself wishing that alone would be enough. She could still feel it, her talisman, her little piece of luck, warm in the palm of her hand, soft and yielding. The way it seemed to – fit. That had been the hardest part, giving it up, even after everything went wrong. Even though she knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do; even when she’d wanted to keep it close.

She grabbed the edge of the sink, slowly pulling herself to her feet, then straightened up, trying to ignore the dull ache deep in her belly. She’d given up so much already.

Don’t lose your nerve.

She shifted the phone from one hand to the other, flexed her fingers, listened. She could definitely hear footsteps. They were not so much moving across the landing as resonating deep inside the fabric of the building, inside her. The sound was comforting, in its way.

At least she wasn’t alone.

The front door scraped open and – there was no mistaking it this time – someone stood hesitating on the threshold. Upstairs the footsteps stopped.

‘Hello?’

It was him.

She’d made it clear he needed to keep this to himself, their arrangement. And later when they asked, she would say that she had come back to the house to retrieve her phone.

Her heart pounding, she moved silently to the corner of the room, to the fuse box.

Maybe he’ll go away.

She could hear the door rattling softly on its hinges as he pushed it further back. It was dark in the hall, she knew, gloomy.

There was a shuffling as he tried to make up his mind. It wouldn’t be long, a few seconds at most before he stepped inside.

She would say she had come back to the house to retrieve her phone and – and . . .

She had found him there, and no, she’d had no idea – there was no reason for him to be in the house, no reason at all.

And there had been nothing she could do.

An accident, she thought as she reached up, opening the cupboard door.

She had been too late.

‘Hello?’ His voice soft, uncertain.

The floorboards shifting as he stepped inside. The noise upstairs started again, bolder now, insistent.

She placed her hand on the switch, closed her eyes, and pushed.

Chapter 1

1

Nell looked up at the gate; its slender fleurs-de-lys curves at odds with the worn sandstone buildings either side of it. It was new, wrought iron, unpainted, unfinished, the pale pewter grey standing in stark contrast with the rest of the long cobbled street and its mismatched Georgian shop fronts, the low doors and the sagging bow windows.

‘Unbelievable.’ She shook her head.

‘What now?’ said Chris.

‘These yards aren’t private. They’ve no right to block it.’

‘Well, it’s not blocked, is it?’ said Maude. She reached past Nell and pushed; the bolt was hanging loose, and the gate opened easily enough, clattering against the enamelled sign that had been set into the wall, BISHOPS YARD. ‘See?’

‘It’s out of place,’ said Nell. ‘And it’s ugly.’

‘Yes, well, grab a bag, would you?’ Chris opened the car boot. ‘Best not hang around.’

The journey had taken longer than they’d expected, a combination of motorway delays and too many stops to accommodate Maude’s alleged travel sickness. Then they’d been late collecting the keys from the letting agency up on the West Cliff.

‘I’ll go over with you,’ the woman had said, ‘get you settled in,’ but there’d been no mistaking the relief in her eyes when Chris had declined her offer. The shop was empty, the sign flipped to Closed and Nell had the impression that the rest of the staff had left for the day.

‘We’ll manage,’ Chris said. ‘My wife’s a local girl.’

‘Really?’

‘We’ve kept you waiting long enough, and I’m sure you need to get home.’

The woman picked up a folder and two sets of keys, glancing at Nell, most likely trying, and failing, to place her. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Chris said. ‘Thanks.’

But Nell had forgotten about the one-way system, or maybe it was new, and once they’d left the agency, they’d had to follow the road up onto the cliff, and down onto the seafront, before driving up the harbour to cross the little swing bridge into the east side of town. Over the river, they’d turned onto the cobbled street, slowing the car as they checked the names of the yards. Chris had parked as close as he could, up on the pavement, more or less.

‘It’s a gate, it doesn’t have to be pretty,’ said Maude, picking up her rucksack and leading the way.

‘Well, thank you for your insight, sweetheart,’ said Chris, ‘I’ll be sure to—’

Nell nudged him and shook her head.

Maude counted off the numbers on the houses as they walked up the yard. There was a narrow gutter running the length of it, not quite central, not quite straight, carving its way through the worn cobbles. ‘One, two, three,’ to their right, ‘five, six, four,’ to the left. She came to a halt at the bottom of a flight of stone steps, steeply pitched, shallow and uneven. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’ She looked up at Nell, frowning. ‘Why is it like that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Nell considered the question; most of the houses were low sandstone cottages with neat pantile roofs; one or two had well-tended planters by their doors. Numbers five and six were no less orderly, but were built of red brick, and were set further back. All the houses were silent, their windows blank and grey, and it was impossible to tell if they were occupied or not. Nell wondered if the three of them might be the only inhabitants of the whole yard.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘it depends how you look at it.’

Maude followed her gaze, ‘Yeah?’ she said.

‘Do we have to do this now?’ asked Chris, squeezing past, ‘Can’t the history lesson wait?’

Maude chose not to take her father’s side, for a change. ‘Those look new,’ she said, ‘so, the houses are numbered in the order they were built?’

‘Not our place and maybe not the cottages, but yes – anything that came after them.’

Maude absorbed this. ‘Right,’ she said, then she pointed to the next house, which was about halfway up the steps. ‘Is that us, then?’

‘No.’ SPINNAKER COTTAGE was engraved on a brass plate fixed to the bright blue door. ‘We’re right up at the top.’ Nell couldn’t be sure, but there seemed to be movement at one of the windows, someone watching them perhaps as they gawped at the yard like a bunch of tourists. They had shown Maude the pictures, of course, when they’d booked it, but she’d barely acknowledged them, dismissing her father’s enthusiasm for the house, the town, the whole trip with a single word: whatever. Twelve going on twenty-one, as Chris had taken to saying.

It wasn’t so easy to dismiss in real life. Elder House stood at the top of the steps, stiff, formal, imposing, looking down on the rest of the yard. It was rigidly symmetrical, solid, with stone mullioned windows and diamond shaped lead lights. The roof was slate, and there was a grey-greenish tinge to the dressed stone; it was old – but unlike its neighbours – there was some-thing untouched about it.

Dark, Nell thought, the way the house backed up against the cliff like that, she doubted it ever got much direct sunlight, even at midday. And it didn’t look like a holiday let, there was nothing quirky or inviting about it. She turned and looked down the yard. The way it veered ever so slightly to one side meant it was impossible to see the street from here; the effect was oddly isolating.

Chris paused and called down to them, ‘Are you two coming, then?’

Maude rolled her eyes, ‘Yes. Right. Fine.’ Nell took her time following her.

The steps led up to the left side of the house, and to the narrow flagged path that ran around it. There was a sheer drop of ten or twelve feet between it and their nearest neighbour, Spinnaker Cottage, and Nell had to resist the urge to warn Maude to stay away from the edge. She was a sensible kid, as a rule.

Chris was waiting for them by the front door. He found the right key, inserted it into the lock, struggling with it as it seemed to stick, shudder, then give. The door opened into a hall, a gleaming parquet floor dominated by a wide, wooden staircase. It was silent and the air was still; the house smelt faintly of beeswax polish and lavender, and underneath that, something else, something . . . Nell couldn’t place it. They stood there for a moment, the three of them, waiting.

‘Are we going in, then?’ Maude pushed past her father and dropped her things at the foot of the stairs.

Nell followed her, flicking on the hall light, hoping to dispel the gloom. A sharp prickle of static electricity took her unawares, and she caught her breath; Maude turned away, not quite masking a smirk.

There was a door to the left, and Nell opened it, revealing a long room that ran right through the house – the kitchen-diner. At the far end, on the counter, next to the Aga, there was a welcome pack, a cellophane-wrapped hamper filled with someone’s idea of essential groceries and finished off with a shiny blue bow.

They had done a decent job of knocking through a wall; the shift from polished floorboards to worn flagstones was all that indicated there had once been two rooms where now there was one. The leaded windowpanes lent the room a slightly greenish cast.

Without thinking, Nell crossed the kitchen, squatted and lay her hand against the stone floor. It felt cool beneath her palm, and – this must have been imagination – slightly damp.

She stood up. There was a smell here too, although this was easier to place; it put her in mind of wet soil and rotting vegetables. It might have been the rag rug in front of the Aga, but it seemed new enough, the regular, clipped tongues of fabric springing up from the sacking base. Maybe they were the first visitors of the summer season, that would explain the damp, unused air of it all.

She didn’t like it.

More than that: she didn’t want to stay. The thought took her by surprise, and she tried to ignore it. It wasn’t as if she had a choice.

*

It took a couple of trips to get everything out of the car, and by the time they were done, Chris’s mood was beginning to sour. ‘Next time,’ he said, ‘we choose somewhere with parking.’

‘You were the one who wanted to stay in a yard,’ said Nell.

‘You’re the one with the big old family party to go to.’

It wasn’t really her fault, of course, the house, the trip. Nell had glanced at the invitation when it had come, more than a month ago, then put it to one side, intending to send a polite refusal, but never quite getting around to it.

Chris had picked it up from her desk one day, when they’d been discussing Maude, and the long summer that was suddenly stretching out in front of them. ‘There’s always this,’ he said, opening the card before handing it to her.

There was an email address and a phone number printed inside, with the time and the date underneath the announcement: David and Jennifer Galilee, Silver Wedding Anniversary. There was a handwritten message too, although the writing was unfamiliar.

It would be great to see you, if you could find the time.

Love, Jenny and Dave x

‘We won’t know anyone.’

Chris raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘You know what I mean,’ Nell said. ‘You won’t know anyone. And I’ll – it’ll be awkward.’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her cousin, her dad’s funeral, probably.

‘It’s up to you,’ Chris said, ‘but you never know, it could be fun. It might be nice to get away for a bit. Get Maude away from – everything.’

‘It’s a long way to go, just for one party.’

‘Then we make it worth the effort. Stay on for a bit, show her the sights.’

‘There are no sights.’ She stood the card on her desk. The photo on the front showed a yacht sailing out of the harbour on a clear summer’s day. ‘Do you think she’d like it?’

‘I don’t see why not. It’s the seaside, isn’t it? Everyone likes the seaside.’

They hadn’t been back since Maude was small, six or seven years ago, when an ice cream had been a treat, paddling in the sea an adventure. Before the arguments and the sulking, before everything had become so complicated and Maude’s easy affection had been replaced by something more guarded, more unpredictable. The rush of nostalgia took Nell by surprise. ‘Go on then,’ she said, before she could change her mind, ‘but don’t blame me if she gets bored.’

She had pretty much left everything up to him after that. ‘I don’t mind where we stay,’ she’d said, ‘as long as we’re together.’

She hadn’t imagined he’d settle on somewhere so big, so uncompromising.

‘Can I choose my room?’ Maude was already halfway up the stairs.

‘Sure,’ said Chris. ‘Go and have a look around. Don’t mind me. I’ll be having my heart attack in the kitchen, out of the way.’

Maude didn’t look back.

Nell leant back against the banister. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘here we are.’

‘Hmm.’ Chris pulled her into a gentle hug, resting his chin on her head as he looked around the hall, taking it all in.

‘This is all very – showy,’ Nell said. ‘Very posh.’

‘But . . .’

‘There’s a weird’ – she hesitated – ‘smell. Don’t you think?’

‘A smell?’ He held her at arm’s length. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, yes. Haven’t you noticed it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not so bad here, but in the kitchen it . . .’ She didn’t much like the way he was looking at her, as if he found her amusing, and ever so slightly foolish. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . it’s not very us, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

Chris had shown her the posting on the website, and she remembered flicking through images of a fitted kitchen with an electric Aga, cosy sofas and a log burning stove in the living room, exposed beams and leaded windows. She hadn’t really taken it in. Her mind had been on other things.

She tried again. ‘It feels . . .’

‘What?’ That same expression. Amused. Superior.

Wrong. It felt wrong.

‘I like it,’ said Chris. ‘It’s solid. Classy. There’s a bit on the website about its history, former occupants and all that. You should—’

‘Dad! Da-ad!’ Maude’s voice echoed down the stairs.

‘What?’

‘Come and see.’

*

‘No.’

‘You said I could choose.’

‘But not this, obviously.’

‘Why not?’

It was pretty impressive, Nell had to admit. The master bedroom: oak panelled, with an open fireplace, and dominated by a big brass bedstead. The ceiling was a little low perhaps, and its exposed beams seemed to dip slightly, but the room had an air of understated, if impersonal, comfort. There was a pitcher and ewer perched on a table underneath one set of windows, and a chest of drawers beneath the other. There was no wardrobe, but there were cupboards built into the wall either side of the tiled chimney breast, their tiny brass latches fitting flush against the painted wood.

Maude didn’t mean it, of course – Nell could see that, she had no more intention of claiming this room than she did of letting either of them forget she was here on sufferance; the brief truce her interest in the yard had signalled was clearly over.

She fixed Nell with an accusing stare. ‘He said.’

‘You know perfectly well what your father meant.’ Nell walked to one of the windows. Below them, to the left, the door to Spinnaker Cottage opened and a woman came out. She was blonde, wearing jeans and a waterproof jacket. As she walked down the yard, her scarf, a monochrome geometric design, fluttered in the breeze.

‘Any other room,’ Chris said, ‘but not this one.’

‘It’s not fair.’

‘We need the double bed,’ said Chris, certain, surely, of the reaction this would provoke.

‘God,’ said Maude, after a horrified pause. ‘You two are gross.’ She turned and strode out of the room.

‘What?’ asked Chris, meeting Nell’s gaze. ‘What have I done now?’

‘Nothing,’ said Nell, turning her attention back to the window, ‘but you can tell she’s just spoiling for a fight, can’t you?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to do when she’s being such a – brat?’

Just take a breath, Nell thought, just listen to her. ‘Oh,’ she said, the blonde woman had reappeared and was walking up the steps, a determined expression on her face as she headed straight for Elder House. ‘I think we have a visitor.’

She could hear them, talking by the door downstairs. She’d sent Chris to deal with the woman, and now she sat on the bed, listening to the rise and fall of their voices, running her hand over the soft blue and white quilt. Her limbs were heavy, she was tempted to kick off her shoes and lie down, curl up and close her eyes, to leave the house to Chris and Maude as she slept.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, once they settled in.

The woman’s voice was rapid and determined, Chris’s responses, deeper, more considered, and gradually his voice came to dominate the exchange. After a while they said their goodbyes and Nell heard the door close.

She stood up and went to the window again, just in time to catch a final glimpse of the woman walking down the yard, upright, brisk.

‘Nell!’ Chris called up the stairs. ‘I just need to move the car.’

‘OK.’

She heard him go into the kitchen, then emerge again. As he left the house, he slammed the front door behind him.

The floorboards on the landing shifted and sighed.

‘Maude?’

But there was no answer, evidently she was yet to be forgiven. She thought again about the online posting for the house. There had been no reviews, she remembered. No user comments. The owners must be new to the holiday-let business. Maybe that was why the place felt so . . .

Expectant.

Maude passed along the landing again; her footfalls muted by the carpet but still managing somehow to signal her discontent. Maybe she should have a word.

*

She had assumed that Maude would take the back bedroom, but when she opened the door, it was empty. ‘Maude? Hello?’ She waited for an answer, as if Maude might be hiding some-where. It was only when she went back onto the landing that she noticed the steps, the wooden ladder that seemed to be fixed permanently in place, leading up to a hatch-door and the attic.

*

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Nell said, climbing the last few rungs.

‘I’m exploring,’ Maude said, ‘I mean, if that’s all right.’ She’d retrieved her bags from the hall and was bent over her rucksack, fiddling with the straps. Nell wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have been crying.

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