Sara Foster - Beneath the Shadows

‘I know, I’m my own worst enemy.’

Grace smiled again distractedly as Annabel chattered away, getting up to gaze once more through the kitchen window. All was quiet. She walked slowly to the front of the cottage and glanced out into the dusky garden.

There was a dark shape on her doorstep. She couldn’t quite see it at this angle, or make out much in the shadows. She frowned, listening to Annabel reporting on her week as she headed to the front door. Once there, she twisted the key in the lock, pulled it open and stopped in shock.

In front of her was Millie’s pram. She peered inside, to find her ten-week-old daughter fast asleep, her cheeks rosy and cold, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily underneath the tightly tucked woollen coverlet.

Grace ran her fingers gently over her daughter’s forehead, then glanced around and said, ‘Adam?’

No one answered. She waited, watching her short breaths bursting into the frosty night air. She called a little louder, ‘Adam, where are you?’

Silence. Then she heard a small voice saying. ‘Grace? Grace? ’

She looked down absently at the phone in her hand. She lifted it up to hear Annabel’s voice, alarmed. ‘Grace, what’s going on?’

‘I just found Millie asleep in her pram on the front doorstep,’ Grace said, her confusion growing with every word.

‘So they’re back then. See, I told you it would be fine.’

Grace stared out into the deepening darkness. ‘I’m not sure, Annabel. It’s only Millie here. There’s no sign of Adam.’

‘He must be caught up with something – he’ll be there in a second, I’m sure,’ Annabel reassured her.

But he wasn’t.

It waited in the shadows, golden orbs for eyes that burned with hellfire. A continuous low growl hummed in her ears. And then came the snarl and a frenzied flash of fangs.

When she heard the scream, Grace came to with a start. The noise weakened to a wail – a high-pitched cry that sent a shudder through her. She checked the clock – three a.m. – then flung back the bedclothes, jumped up and rushed into the small room next door, swatting the landing light switch as she went, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Millie stood holding the cot bars with one hand, the other clutching Mr Pink, the small teddy bear Adam had brought to the hospital after she was born. Her eyes were squeezed tight, lashes glistening with unshed tears, while her fine brown hair had risen up in a defiance of curls. She had already worked herself into an exhaustion of gulping sobs and whimpers, and Grace went swiftly towards her and gathered her up into the safety of her arms. Millie huddled against her mother’s breasts, her wet nose and mouth dampening Grace’s nightshirt.

‘You’re safe now, Mummy’s here,’ Grace whispered as she rocked her daughter gently, chanting the words over and over, whether to Millie or to herself she wasn’t sure. ‘It was just a nightmare.’

Soon, Millie began to quieten, and as her breathing slowed, so did Grace’s racing heart. While she cradled her child tightly, she tried to push away her thoughts – but it was no use. She feared it had been a mistake to come back.

They had driven to the village that morning through the sodden November countryside, their car sloshing along the winding roads, while Grace’s reasons for returning began to look more and more muddied. But through the endless days and restless nights of the last twelve months she had been sure of one thing: she would come back.

It had taken much longer to reach the village than she remembered. Eventually they had crossed a cattle grid at the bottom of a steep hill, then listened to the car’s protesting whine as it climbed up the bank in second gear. As they reached the bare brown moor top, Grace’s memories began to unfold. The back of her neck prickled as the hill plateaued out and took them gently downwards, and the sensation moved to her throat as she saw the village sign – ‘Roseby’ – set into a jagged piece of stone. Then the road dipped abruptly, revealing first of all a brick house, then a neat sloping row of terraced cottages. She drove until she reached the last one, halfway down the hill, then pulled onto the grass in front of a low stone wall, and switched off the engine. One year ago, Adam had been here with them, parking a large removals van ahead of their car. Grace remembered catching his eye through the windscreen, his grin as he came across to unbuckle Millie from her seat, and the way he had cradled his tiny daughter close, pointing at the cottage and telling her, ‘We’re home.’

Now, Grace’s hand shook as she pulled the keys from the ignition. She peered over into the back seat, murmuring to her sleeping child, ‘We’re here.’

Millie had been reluctant to wake, her head drooping against her mother’s chest as Grace struggled with the stiff front door lock, eager to escape the icy wind. Once inside, warmth hit them, taking Grace by surprise. She moved through the small entranceway into the lounge. There was a note on the coffee table: ‘ Have left a few things in the fridge for you. Meredith .’

Looking around, Grace was touched. She barely knew Meredith. The first time they had met, Grace had been dazed. Police had been bustling in and out, while she stared in bewilderment at Adam’s dirty mug on the side, his jumper slung over the kitchen chair, his toolbox left open on the worktop.

Meredith had volunteered to help and made cups of tea for everyone, but Grace would have barely remembered her if she hadn’t turned up again a week or so later. This time it was Grace’s mother who made Meredith tea, explained that they were taking Grace home with them, and accepted her kind offer of looking after the cottage until Grace decided what to do next.

However, Meredith had gone above and beyond what Grace was expecting. There was no air of neglect to the place: the surfaces were freshly dusted, the radiators were warm, while the air smelled faintly of lavender. It took the edge off Grace’s apprehension, and she was overcome with gratitude.

She had put Millie down on the floor with a drink. Then she had walked into the kitchen, to find it waiting neat and expectant, before heading back through the lounge and into the hall, climbing the stairs, tiptoeing like a trespasser.

Her emotions had finally caught up with her as she took her first tentative look into the main bedroom. There was the bed – their bed – made up neatly. She had gone across, turned back the covers, and pressed her face into the pillow on Adam’s side, but all she could smell was clean linen.

She stood and gently shushed Millie in her arms, using the soft glow of the landing light to watch as Millie slowly succumbed to sleep. After a while, she carefully laid her little girl back down and returned to her own room. A loud, insistent ticking kept time with her footsteps. She had forgotten about the damn grandfather clock. The last time she had been here the ticking and chiming had begun to drive her crazy, though Adam had reassured her that she would get used to it. ‘It’s been with the family for generations, it’s got to be valuable,’ he’d said, opening the oak casing at the front and beginning to wind it. ‘My grandfather used to call it the heartbeat of the cottage.’

Now, Grace attempted to ignore it, as she lay under the bedclothes and tried to drift off. But suddenly her eyelids were aglow, and the deep crackle of tyres outside made her jump. She padded out of bed again and eased one curtain back a little, resting her hand on the cool windowpane.