Beneath the Shadows Read online

  Beneath the Shadows

  Sara Foster

  "A haunting tale of loss and one woman's search for the truth no matter the consequences. This vividly written novel will leave you breathless and as chilled as the starkly beautiful North Yorkshire moors where this compelling story unfolds." – Heather Gudenkauf

  In this thrilling gothic suspense debut in the tradition of Rosamund Lupton and Sophie Hannah, a young mother searches Yorkshire's windswept moors for the truth behind her husband's mysterious disappearance.

  THE ANSWERS ARE HIDING BENEATH THE SHADOWS

  When Grace's husband, Adam, inherits an isolated North Yorkshire cottage, they leave the bustle of London behind to try a new life. A week later, Adam vanishes without a trace, leaving their baby daughter, Millie, in her stroller on the doorstep. The following year, Grace returns to the tiny village on the untamed heath. Everyone – the police, her parents, even her best friend and younger sister – is convinced that Adam left her. But Grace, unable to let go of her memories of their love and life together, cannot accept this explanation. She is desperate for answers, but the slumbering, deeply superstitious hamlet is unwilling to give up its secrets. As Grace hunts through forgotten corners of the cottage searching for clues, and digs deeper into the lives of the locals, strange dreams begin to haunt her. Are the villagers hiding something, or is she becoming increasingly paranoid? Only as snowfall threatens to cut her and Millie off from the rest of the world does Grace make a terrible discovery. She has been looking in the wrong place for answers all along, and she and her daughter will be in terrible danger if she cannot get them away in time.

  Sara Foster

  Beneath the Shadows

  © 2011

  For the Curlew Cottage family

  The past is still too close to us.

  The things we have tried to forget and put behind us

  would stir again…

  Rebecca

  DAPHNE DU MAURIER

  1

  They should be home.

  The thought scratched at Grace’s mind as she peered out of a narrow upstairs window. The sun had long-since been banished behind a blanket of thick grey cloud. In front of her, the wild moorland rolled away to be absorbed by the gloom of twilight.

  She turned and trailed through the cottage, flicking at wall switches, shaking the shadows from their slumbers and driving them out. She moved as though in a trance, the surroundings still surreal to her, although it had been over a week since they had moved in. The upstairs corridor was poky, and the ceiling so low that she had spent the last few days watching Adam stooping under the beams. The staircase was steep, the wood beneath the carpet uneven, so it was better to tread on the outer edges of each step rather than stumbling into the indentations of myriad footsteps gone before.

  She made her careful way downstairs, through the small living room that was littered with packing boxes, and headed into the kitchen, moving again to a window, unable to stop herself from looking out across the sloping moors towards the distant road that wound in and out of sight. A few trees were silhouetted on the horizon, their brittle skeletons bent from regular lashings by the coastal winds. The view before her was utterly still.

  She took a deep breath, trying to quell the worry that was winding her nerves into knots. Adam’s note had unsettled her. ‘Won’t be long. I have to talk to you when I get back, don’t go anywhere. A x’

  Back in the lounge, Grace threw herself into an armchair, one hand brushing over the raked leather where a long-dead cat had once regularly sharpened its claws. She looked around the cottage – their cottage, though it was nigh on impossible to think of it that way.

  ‘It’s an incredible gift,’ she could still hear Adam enthusing, over and over, when they had first found out his grandparents had bequeathed Hawthorn Cottage to him. ‘It’s like fate is giving us a bloody great shove in the back. Our own place, no mortgage, away from the rat race, a chance for Millie to start life among nature rather than believing that trees grow through cracks in the paving. Come on, Gracie, let’s give it a go.’

  At that point Grace had been overwhelmed by pads and pumps and nappies, and had somehow found herself agreeing with every point he made. Adam was right. Who wanted red-top buses flying past their flat at all hours; noise, lights, people everywhere? This way they could escape their financial pressures for a while. She didn’t want to leave Millie while she was tiny, and go back to her marketing job, with its meagre wage and demanding retail clients. It wasn’t her vocation, and to satisfy her demanding boss she often had to stay long after office hours were over.

  They couldn’t avoid the fact that their priorities were changing. Adam and Grace had begun their relationship to a backdrop of fine restaurants and raucous weekends away with friends. Now, in their thirties, most people they knew had children, their social life had dwindled, and they wouldn’t be the first ones to make the move out of the city. Grace began to imagine the possibilities that the cottage in North Yorkshire would present: the chance to cook proper meals for a change, taking Millie for long country walks in the fresh air, and snuggling up to Adam in the evenings. She wouldn’t have to give up anything either – she could take the maximum maternity leave she was allowed while they gave it a try. To top it off, they’d be free of the extortionate rent on their tiny two-bedroom flat, so instead of struggling, they might even save. And, as Adam said, if it didn’t work out, then they would simply come back.

  ‘Six months,’ she’d agreed. ‘We’ll try it for six months, see how we go.’

  But as they had packed their belongings, and the moving date drew nearer, something had begun to niggle at her. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was that woke her in the early hours, well before the baby stirred. Eventually she had dismissed it as understandable nerves at such a big change. And yet, the nagging voice refused to quieten.

  Now, she picked at the torn leather on the armchair as she thought about their first few days in the cottage. The unsettling silence as she had unpacked boxes. The stillness each time she looked out of the window. The black descent of night; and the relentless ticking and chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall. As she sat there, it was hard to imagine the throngs of people and traffic swirling around central London, an endlessly shifting kaleidoscope of colour and movement. The last week at the cottage had felt like the longest of Grace’s life. The six months she had promised Adam now lay interminably before them.

  She looked at her watch. Where the hell were they? Adam’s car was out the front, so they couldn’t have gone far. Just the thought of the two of them made her heart quicken. Since Millie had been born her emotions seemed to bubble fierce and strange beneath her skin, threatening to spill over at any moment.

  Her mobile rang and she fumbled around for it among the packing debris, snatching at it before it could ring out.

  ‘Gracie?’

  ‘Annabel,’ she sighed, sitting back down.

  ‘You could at least pretend to be pleased to hear from me,’ her sister grumbled. ‘Or have you forgotten about me already now you’ve moved to Timbuktu?’

  ‘Sorry, Bel, I’m getting a bit worried about Adam and Millie – they’ve been out since I got back from town. They should be back by now.’

  Annabel laughed. ‘Grace, you’re such a worry wart. Adam’s probably chatting over a fencepost somewhere. You know he has to show Millie off to everyone. Stop panicking. Now, tell me when you’re coming back – you can’t become a country bumpkin forever. I miss you too much.’

  Grace smiled at that. ‘You still don’t believe that I’ve moved away, do you? Come and see us, Bel. You never know, you might like it here.’

  ‘So you’re planning on staying then?’

  ‘Yes,�
�� Grace said, as emphatically as she could manage. She had never felt the need to pretend to Annabel before, but she was determined to give this move a chance. In truth, she missed her sister terribly, knew the feeling was mutual, and was afraid that Annabel would exploit any opportunity she saw to encourage them back to London.

  ‘Grace? Are you listening to me?’

  She tuned back in to the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

  ‘I was asking you to tell me just what Yorkshire has that London doesn’t?’

  ‘Well, fresh air, for a start? And you can move without someone knocking you over and then swearing at you.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Annabel acquiesced. ‘Well, at least I don’t have to see you and Adam wandering around with soppy grins on your faces quite so often. It can get pretty sickening after a while, you know.’

  Grace ignored the jibe. ‘Come for a visit, Bel – we’ve got a pub!’

  ‘Hmmm. I guess I might have to if you won’t come back. London misses you, though. I miss you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have helped me pack everything up then.’

  ‘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.

  2

  Twelve months later

  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 fa
mily 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.

  A black Land Rover was parked a short distance up the sloping lane, just visible by the faint moonlight that cut through the clouds. It had stopped outside the redbrick house that crested the hill. The Land Rover’s headlights were now off and the interior light was on, but Grace was too far away to see anything more than a moving shadow inside. The light disappeared, the driver climbed out into a darkness her vision could not penetrate, she heard the slight creaking of a gate, and then all was silent.

  She could feel her heart thudding beneath her nightshirt, but tried to calm herself, realising how silly she was being. It was perfectly reasonable for people to arrive home in the middle of the night. She must stop letting her imagination play games with her.

  She settled back into bed again, but sleep wanted nothing to do with her now. She remembered the first night she’d ever spent here, when Adam had pulled her to him and wrapped her tight within his arms. He had been wearing a thick jumper – in fact they’d both been semi-dressed, having under-anticipated the biting cold of the northern winter. She could still feel the fleece soft against her skin, warming the cheek that had lain against it while the rest of her face stung with cold. ‘I’m scared too,’ he’d said, holding her close. ‘But I know we’ve done the right thing, Grace. I promise it will be all right.’