by Anni Taylor
Stranger in the Woods
ANNI TAYLOR
Copyright © 2018 by ANNI TAYLOR
All rights reserved. Anni Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, now known or hereinafter invented, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Characters, names and events portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
For my wonderful father,
who asked about my writing
until the very last day
that he was able to.
And for my sister Karen
and nieces Naomi & Kylie,
who love a wild Scotsman.
Contents
STORY
PROLOGUE
1. ISLA
2. ISLA
3. ISLA
4. ISLA
5. ISLA
6. ELODIE
7. ISLA
8. ISLA
9. ISLA
10. ISLA
11. ISLA
12. ELODIE
13. ISLA
14. ISLA
15. ISLA
16. ISLA
17. ISLA
18. ELODIE
19. ISLA
20. ISLA
21. ISLA
22. ISLA
23. ISLA
24. ELODIE
25. ISLA
26. ISLA
27. ISLA
28. ISLA
29. ISLA
30. ELODIE
31. ISLA
32. ISLA
33. ISLA
34. ISLA
35. ISLA
36. ELODIE
37. ISLA
38. ISLA
39. ISLA
40. ISLA
41. ISLA
42. ELODIE
43. ISLA
44. ISLA
45. ISLA
46. ISLA
47. ISLA
48. ISLA
49. ISLA
50. ISLA
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CREDITS
ALSO BY ANNI TAYLOR
EXCERPT: THE GAME YOU PLAYED
Photographer Isla Wilson is thrilled she’s landed her dream job, but the clients who hired her are getting stranger by the day.
It sounded so perfect - photographing the misty, sprawling Scottish Highlands property of architect Alban McGregor and his wife, Jessica.
But deep in the woods, there is a chilling playhouse. Two years ago, the McGregors' daughter, Elodie, died after being abducted and taken there. Alban refuses to knock the playhouse down and keeps a picture of it on his wall.
Isla senses that both Alban and Jessica are keeping terrible secrets.
The closer Isla comes to getting answers about Elodie, the more the danger mounts. And with a dense cover of snow now blanketing the town, all chance of escape might already be gone.
PROLOGUE
ELODIE McGREGOR
Greenmire, Scottish Highlands, December 2015
The more Elodie tried to ignore the cold and dark the more it crept in.
Bare branches tapped and scrabbled against the windows. The tall forest stared inside. Chilled air stepped into the rooms like unwanted visitors.
Her fingers fumbled as she set down her game controller and zipped up her jacket.
Be a good girl, Elodie, Mum had told her. Just play your game ‘til I get back.
Elodie was tall for an eight-year-old. Everyone said so.
But she didn’t feel tall right now.
Unable to sit there a minute longer, she tore around the downstairs rooms, switching on every light.
Better. The brightly-lit house looked like a home again.
With her heart pumping hard, she blew white breath into her hands. The air was refrigerator-cold. Running back into the living room, she gazed at the ashen logs in the fireplace. She wasn’t allowed to light the fire by herself. But she was allowed to fetch logs from the wood shed. And if she left it any longer, it would turn pitch-dark outside and she’d be too scared to go out there.
Mum had gone into town to fetch a bag of potatoes. Can’t make potato mash for the cottage pie without potatoes, she’d said.
Mum had been forgetful lately. Forgetful and grouchy and weepy. She said it was the pregnancy. In a month, the baby would be born. Right now, Elodie guiltily thought that Mum’s swollen belly was the best and sweetest thing about her. At least once a day, Elodie would steal into the nursery and peek at the empty cot that was waiting for its new arrival.
Maybe Mum would like a toasty warm house to return to. The more Elodie thought about it, the more she was sure Mum would. She could dash out to the wood shed and be back within ten minutes.
The sun winked low and red through the bare trees as she darted from the house. A gust of wind lashed a sprinkling of rain across her face. A gale shrieked over the distant hills, reminding her of a pack of wild dogs.
The wood shed was all the way at the end of the driveway, near the entry to their property. When Mum wanted wood for the fire lately, she drove down to the shed and packed the wood into the car. She’d said that her belly was too big for her to waddle down there and then back again with a load of firewood.
Zipping her jacket higher, Elodie reached the cottage that stood near the woodshed. She briefly slowed her pace to jump on each of the seven stepping stones.
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven
All good children go to heaven
Mum had taught her that rhyme, and now she couldn’t walk over the stepping stones without thinking of it.
She remembered to keep her distance from the woody, thorny vines that covered the cottage. Sometimes, Nanna came to stay in the cottage. Elodie wished Nan was there right now.
She hesitated once she reached the shed, the entrance as dark as the inside of a snake’s mouth. Adders sometimes hid in the wood pile. They should be hibernating now, but if you disturbed a hibernating snake, it might bite. Once, when she was small, she’d uncovered a pile of what she thought were some kind of worms. But they’d been newly-born snakes, no thicker than her fingers. She’d been lucky—the mother snake had still been busy spilling out her live young.
Snatching up a stick, Elodie poked at the nearest stack of wood. She shuddered, knowing that once adders bite their prey, they go tracking down the ailing animal—sniffing about with their tongues—until they found it. She stuck out her tongue, tasting the bitter air, wondering how it was possible to smell things that way.
No snake uncoiled itself from the stack.
Dropping the stick, she rubbed her arms against the cold, wishing that she’d worn a coat and gloves. She leaned into the shed to gather up two pieces of wood, then two more. She swore—loudly—as a splinter pushed itself in under her nail. Mum would be shocked to hear her say those words, but Mum wasn’t here. And the splinter hurt.
Balancing the pile of wood against her small chest, she kicked the shed door shut behind her.
She glanced up at the house. It’d take at least twenty minutes to get the living room properly toasty. She had to hurry if she wanted to do it before Mum got back.
Without warning, a figure stepped out from around the side of the cottage.
The surprise almost had her dropping her stack of wood. “Hello?”
The person
didn’t speak. Just moved closer. At first, she thought it was the person she was expecting. His body shape, his walk and the dark eyes above the scarf that was wound up to the bridge of his nose—they were all familiar. But he wasn’t supposed to be here yet. And she didn’t recognise the expression in his eyes at all. This was a stranger.
“Mum wants me inside.” The words came without thinking. But once spoken, the words seemed to hang in the air, somehow tainting the world darker. Something was wrong and every fibre of her being knew it.
This time, she dropped the wood, preparing to run.
With fast strides, he was straight in front of her. He had her hand now. The cold leather of his glove wrapped around her fingers.
All happening so quick she’d forgotten to breathe.
He began tugging her towards the forest.
An instinct took over before he could tighten his hold. She wrenched her hand away and ran.
He was quicker. Each time she rushed forward, he was there, blocking her path back to the house.
She spun around. Nowhere to go but away. Into the forest.
He followed.
Could she make it to a neighbour’s house? There were only three neighbours and they were all so far away. She made a set of frenzied calculations. No—she couldn’t make it before he caught her.
The bare, wintry trees were doing little to hide her from her pursuer. She couldn’t climb one of the trees—the tall, straight trunks provided no lower branches. He’d surely be able to follow her up a tree, anyway.
She could outrun and out-climb most of the boys at school, but her pursuer was no boy. Every time she tried to circle back, he forced her to turn and run deeper into the forest.
The safe world vanished.
Her lungs were starting to burn. Hot. Stinging.
He was faster than her. Too fast. He’d catch her up soon.
She felt her energy flagging.
Wind snatched the wetness in her eyes away.
A stitch in her side swapped from gnawing pain to unbearable.
She cut across to the right, her stomach cramping and leg muscles turning from tight to jelly.
She soon saw her mistake in running this way.
The playhouse was here.
He’d been herding her this way all along. She was certain of that.
As she stopped to gulp a lungful of air, he caught her. The breath of the wind replaced with his.
He made her go into the playhouse.
Walls. Floor. Nothing else. No place to hide. Just an old chair and a scattering of leaves that had blown in through the gaps in the larch.
Elodie whirled around and around in the dark air.
She was a mouse in a trap, with no way out.
1
ISLA
Sydney, Australia, November 2017
My head swam and sweat oozed in disgusting rivulets down my back. Fierce sun beat down on Sydney Harbour, making the late spring air almost unbearably hot. I needed to complete this photography portfolio before I could get home and kick off my clammy shoes.
Standing at the bow of the client’s yacht, I snapped nine or ten quick photos. My client had requested a set of images that captured his sponsorship advertising on a racing yacht that was competing today.
I must have taken a hundred photos so far. But I couldn’t quite get the angle I wanted. And angles were everything.
Frustration needled me as I headed down into the cabin for my lunch break. My photography shoots usually went better than this. I set up on the small table with my half dried-out sandwiches.
Flipping open my laptop, I chewed absently on my sandwich and checked my emails. There were the usual social media notifications. And a few emails from friends and clients. I read them all. That was my routine at lunch each day.
A friend of mine had recently had a new baby. The baby was tiny and squashy and squinty—as newborns tended to be. I commented to say she was beautiful anyway. In a few months, she would be. To me, newborns seemed like the larva before the butterfly.
I scanned the job offers, too, swallowing the last tasteless clump of sandwich. There was a job in Los Angeles, working as a photo editor in entertainment photography. A few European positions, working in the fashion world. And more than a few jobs as social media influencers. All were full-time positions. I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. I was commitment-phobic in all areas of life.
A job in Scotland caught my eye. The assignment only required a month’s work. I lingered on the ad, reading it through twice:
Experienced Photographer Wanted
Nov 18—Dec 18
Looking for a photographer to create a perspective on Scottish architect, Alban McGregor, for a major UK architectural magazine.
Mr McGregor is fairly new in his field but is creating a lot of buzz and winning major awards.
You will be staying in private accommodation on his property in the Scottish Highlands, assembling a portfolio of portraits, landscapes and architecture. The portfolio will include portraits of Alban’s family.
We’re searching for a photographer with fresh eyes and unique perspectives who can create something very special.
Light snowfall is a possibility towards the last week of the given month.
Offering a very attractive remuneration. All meals included.
If this is of interest to you, please contact Greer Crowley at your earliest convenience. Please include links to recent examples of your work and background.
I’d certainly have fresh eyes and unique perspectives. I’d never seen snow or been to the UK. And I desperately wanted to see snow. I was experienced, and I’d been seeded in the landscape category in Australia’s most prestigious photography awards—the APPA.
But Scotland was on the other side of the world. An instant no.
I’d stuck close to my home town for years. Sydney. I lived with my mum and brother in a convenient spot right in the city. Safe in my comfort zone. There was more than enough work here for me, and I didn’t want or need to go anywhere else.
Still, I was curious about the job.
The job description had mentioned family portraits. I decided to look up the McGregor family.
On my laptop, I searched for ALBAN MCGREGOR, FAMILY. The first thing that came up was a news item dated two years ago. It featured a picture of a young, dark-haired girl. I clicked on it.
An article loaded in:
Greenmire girl, Elodie McGregor, dies in hospital
Eight-year-old Elodie died in Greenmire hospital tonight in the arms of her parents, Alban and Jessica McGregor. Five days ago, Elodie was abducted from outside her Greenmire home and taken to a tiny cabin in the middle of the wood – a playhouse made by children.
She was given sleeping medication by the abductor but was otherwise physically unharmed. The high dosage of the medication caused severe effects, putting Elodie into a coma.
Elodie has died without waking up from her coma. Police are still searching for the abductor. Anyone with information should contact Greenmire police as a matter of urgency.
I shuddered. That poor family. I wished now that I hadn’t looked them up. Every family had their tragedies, but this one was about as sad as a tragedy could get.
Closing my laptop, I headed back up to the deck.
The sun blasted my face straight away. The wooziness I’d felt before lunch returned, a headache tightening across the base of my skull.
The heat didn’t seem to faze my American client, Don Barrington. He and his wife stood a short distance away in their white linen clothing, chatting with the crew.
Moving to the rail, I prepared my camera.
The shots I’d taken so far were good, but I knew I could do better.
As I raised my head, I caught my breath. Right now, the sun was exactly at the right position, a gorgeous translucency coming through the white sails. There was a fluidity in the way the yachts’ sails crisscrossed each other that could have music written to it. All against an el
ectric blue sky.
A familiar buzz of excitement threaded itself under my skin. This was the shot I needed.
Put the wooziness in your head on ignore, Isla, and do a job that wows the client. You’ve got this.
Climbing up to perch on the bow’s railing, I leaned out over the water.
I wiped a damp hand on my shirt and gripped the railing, framing up the shot. I snapped a photo that was so perfect it made my heart beat faster.
Immediately, I hit send on my camera’s screen. It was a strict habit of mine to send my photos straight to online storage. Not because I was the most organised person in the world, but because I didn’t trust myself or my equipment not to screw up somehow. Once a photo screwed up, the record of that moment in time was gone forever.
The heat seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. A short electrical pulse zapped my head.
Without warning, I wet myself.
Confused thoughts swirled in my mind.
How do I hide the wet patch on my khaki-coloured hiking shorts?
How do I get down from here in time to save the camera?
