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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Dawn Goodwin
  3. WHAT I NEVER TOLD YOU
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. Acknowledgements
  55. About the Author
  56. An Invitation from the Publisher

The shape moved again, retreating back down the garden, back to where they had come from.

Mills exhaled her held breath, but sat for a moment longer, making sure she was alone again.

6

THEN

I get off the bus and walk the short distance down the road towards the coastal path and my house. Mine is one of the first stops. I live on the edge of the village, overlooking the sea. There was a time when people used to go on and on about how weird the house was, saying it was haunted, twisted and sombre as it perched above the sea. It isn’t modern like some of my friends’ houses. Over the years my mother has tried to lighten it, painting the outside white, adding glass doors and larger windows, even installing a long, stained glass window above the stairs, but the house seems to hang onto the gloom, determined to remain in the shadows.

I don’t mind it though. It is the kind of house that Stephen King would write a novel about and I think the place has character, a personality, unlike the blank canvasses of the houses around us. Many of the other houses nearby are empty for much of the year, holiday homes locked up as the summer draws to a close, dust sheets thrown over furniture and shutters closed to the shortening days. They may open them for a flurry of activity at Christmas, but for the most part they remain dark and uninhabited until the warmth reappears. Sometimes I imagine my house feeding off the others, slowly sucking the life from them over the summer until it is sated and they are depleted, needing hibernation to recuperate before opening themselves up again.

I should write a story about it. The house that feeds on the souls of those around it. Or in it. There’s a few lost souls in mine.

Not a story for anyone to actually read, of course. El would have a field day if she knew I wrote in my spare time, let alone read books that didn’t have photos of celebrities in them.

I reach up to let myself in the back gate. The sea is noisy over my shoulder, the salt spray strong and tangy on my lips. I turn, one hand holding the gate, and look out at the rolling white horses and scavenging birds dipping, diving, shouting. The sea seems angry today. Most days. I stand for a moment, enjoying the spit of salt as it peppers my face, seeing the clouds build in the distance. Rain coming later.

I stay there for some time, not wanting to go inside just yet.