Mary Hades: Beginnings: Books One and Two, plus novellas

by Sarah Dalton

  Is it a challenge?

  Chapter Nine

  I know from experience that monsters can exist in the daylight as well as at night. So the next day I’m on guard, especially after my conversation with Neil. That night I hugged myself all the way back to the caravan, wishing Lacey were with me. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining Little Amy above me, her arms reaching down to me, the blood dripping onto my nose. When I closed my eyes, I saw her. When I opened them, I saw her. But I knew she wasn’t there, because I couldn’t feel her.

  She’s in my head now.

  She’s set up camp there.

  Lacey walks with me through the caravans, listening as I tell her about Little Amy and what Neil said. I pretend to talk on my phone so we can have a conversation without everyone staring.

  “There has to be a reason why she revealed herself to you. Maybe she thinks you’re trying to stop her. Maybe she’s going to act,” Lacey says.

  I nod. “Where were you, last night, anyway? In that place again?”

  “No.” Her eyes open wide and bright with excitement. “I was practising.”

  “Practising what?”

  “Moving things, touching them. I figured that if we’re going up against some poltergeist I should try it out, so I’m stronger.”

  “How did it go?”

  She waves me forward. “Come on, let’s go back to the hill. I want to show you.”

  Lacey sprints away, her body moving jerkily, like most ghosts do when they move. The first time I saw a ghost flicker like that it frightened me, right down to my bones. Now, I guess I’m used to it. It’s annoying, though, because you pretty much have to run flat out to keep up.

  Halfway up the hill, at the point where my legs are screaming out and my sore back aches too much to continue, I turn to see the moors below; the moors where Amy Willis met her fate at the hands of a sadistic killer. I would have been twelve when it happened.

  A shiver runs through me.

  We are the same age. But she’s been dead for five years—alone—with her last memory of people linked with pain and suffering.

  “Hey? You coming?” Lacey calls.

  I turn back towards my best friend and my chest pangs. How long will it take for Lacey to become as twisted as Amy? How long? Will it take watching her friends and family grow old, move on?

  “Yeah, I’m coming,” I say. I try to swallow the thoughts away, but I find myself coughing as though they are stuck in my oesophagus.

  “Okay,” she says. “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a small thing.”

  Lacey steps towards a stone about the size of my fist. She stretches her neck from one side to the other then jumps up and down a couple of times, psyching herself up. Then she leans down, narrows her eyes and scoops up the stone with her hand. On the first attempt, her hand sweeps through the stone like vapour. She clears her throat, clenches her jaw and glares at it like it’s her enemy. Then she leans down again, curving her fingers to scoop up the stone, but slower this time. Her fingers connect and it nudges it forwards.

  I gasp. “You’re doing it!”

  Lacey continues to move the stone forwards, nudging it with her fingers. It takes a few attempts, but eventually she lifts it in the air.

  “That’s amazing, Lace,” I say, genuinely surprised.

  “It takes a hell of a lot of concentrating,” she says. “Check this out.”

  Lacey’s form flickers and disappears, leaving the stone floating in the air.

  “Whoa,” I breathe.

  The stone drops down onto the mossy grass with a thud. Lacey reappears.

  “I’m still practising. Pretty cool though, right? This way, I have your back. I can throw stones at any bastard who tries it on.” She flexes her muscles and laughs.

  “So, how do you make yourself disappear?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s kinda like there are four channels. There’s the hollow weird shit I told you about, there’s around but, you know, not visible, not even to you. Then I can show myself to you, which is how I am without concentrating.” She breaks into a grin. “There’s another one.”

  “Showing yourself to regular people?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  My jaw drops. “You can do that?”

  She nods. “I tried it. There was this dude on his own, behind the campsite, taking a leak. I appear, tell him he’s gross for pissing in public. The guy nearly shat his pants. It was hilarious.”

  “Lacey! Be careful.”

  “Why?” She laughs. “What’s going to happen? I’m dead! It’s not like anyone can hurt me, or arrest me, or whatever. The way I see it, I can make the most of this gig. I can scare the pants off people who deserve it. I’m like the ghosts in the Dickens book, rattling chains and shit.”

  I shake my head in awe. “You’re crazy.”

  Her smile fades. “I’m serious though. You need protection. Amy revealed herself to you. That means she’s going to act. We need to prepare ourselves. We need to know more about my kind and how to stop us. You need to do some research.”

  Her kind sounds so strange, like she’s an alien.

  I shrug heavily. This whole burden, this ghost-whispering thing, it’s like a dead weight on my shoulders, pushing me down. “How?”

  “You could start with your new Goth friend,” she suggests.

  I guess it’s as good a place to start as any.

  *

  I inhale and the air smells like warm moss. My fingers trail the foliage of the neatly trimmed bushes that lead up the driveway back to Five Moors. Birds play a melody on the overhead telephone wires. I left Lacey practising with the stones on the hill. She had a manic look in her eye, excited about the prospect of holding and reading books. It saddens me that something so simple is all she has to look forward to, now.

  The midday sun beats down, forcing me to wear the sunglasses I always carry around in my shoulder bag. I don’t like wearing them. I’d rather see the world as it is; experience the colours as they exist, not through a filter; certainly not through a lens. I hardly ever take photos.

  When I finish adjusting my glasses so they don’t rest on my temples—why are glasses so constrictive? They give me headaches—that I see someone who makes my heart fall to my knees.

  Seth.

  I would recognise that silhouette anywhere. It’s ingrained in my memory, as vivid as the blood on Little Amy’s arms. He sits, cross-legged, on a picnic bench on the edge of the campsite. Instead of staring out into the distance, like he has the last two times I saw him—the only two times I have ever seen him—he has a book in his hand, and seems far away in the pages, lost in words.

  When I move closer, I realise he’s reading Dubliners—an odd choice for your average mechanic. High-brow. The copy is battered and the pages hang loose in his hands as though it has been opened and folded over many times.

  I have to clear my throat to get his attention. “Hey.”

  He looks up from under those soft eyelashes that set my heart aflutter. “Hey.”

  I shift the strap of my shoulder bag and move my weight from one foot to the other, wondering whether I should take a seat next to him, or stay standing… or what. “How come you’re here?”

  “I’m looking for you,” he says. His voice betrays no emotion, but it doesn’t sound angry or bitter, not like the last time I saw him. “I wanted to apologise. And check you’re okay.”

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  He shields his eyes from the sun, his book still in the other hand. “I hung out at a few local places but I never saw you. You mentioned staying nearby and that you were on holiday so… I guess… trial and error.” That sheepish grin is back, thawing at the ice barrier I built to protect myself.

  “What do you want to apologise for?” I ask, trying not to smile about his confession. I’d done pretty much the same thing since we met, hanging around town, checking out the nearby mechanics.

  “I had no right to speak to you like that. Damo’s de
ath was a real shock and I took it badly.” He exhales, staring down at the grass. When he looks back up to me, his eyes are soft, those puppy dog eyes I remember. “It’s no excuse. I was a twat, I’m sorry. You almost died on that death trap, and I put you there.”

  “I’m sorry about Damo,” I say. “But it was me who invited you on the ride. It’s not your fault.” I pause. “I’m sorry about the carnival. Looks like they shut it down.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m finally away from that place.” He rubs his stubble and shifts his weight awkwardly. “I should never have taken the job in the first place. I never trusted him.”

  I move closer, my leg brushing against his arm. “Who?”

  “Davis, the owner. Bloody charlatan. He didn’t give a crap about safety. I should have known, I should have—” He slaps the book against his thigh and closes his eyes. I take a step back and Seth’s demeanour immediately changes. “I’m sorry. I’m such a mess, right now. I shouldn’t have come.” He stands to leave.

  “No, wait.” Without thinking, I reach forward and place a hand on his arm. The soft downy hairs of his forearm tickle my palm.

  My eyes roam along his arm, up to the stubble on his chin, and then to his eyes. His gaze moves to mine at the same time and those long eye-lashes part, showing me his coconut shell irises. His pupils dilate. Or do I imagine it? Like I could be imagining the heat spreading up my body?

  “Don’t go,” I say. “I…” What? I’ve just met him and I think about him… a lot. Basically whenever I’m not thinking about murderous ghosts. “We…”

  “Mary! Yoohooo!”

  “Oh shit,” I say.

  Wearing a bikini top that shows way too many tan lines, culottes and, I kid you not, a neon green visor, Mum waves to me as she shuffles over with Dad. I drop my hand from Seth’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Seth says. His eyes drift lazily across to Mum and then back to me. He does it two or three times and then the corners of his mouth twitch. “That’s your mum, isn’t it?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You look alike.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ve killed people for less.”

  “Sorry.” He chuckles lightly. It makes my heart soar to see him finally smile. He tucks the worn-out copy of Dubliners into his back jeans pocket and stands up straight.

  “Mary, didn’t you hear me calling you?” Mum asks, out of breath from jogging over.

  “Umm…” I say.

  She glosses over the awkward pause. “And who is this?”

  Before I can speak, Seth holds out his hand. “I’m Seth.”

  Mum’s eyes flash with understanding. I glance to Dad, his eyes are very much fixed on Seth’s tattoos. He straightens his back, pushing out his beer belly, and furrows his brow. I know that look of disapproval.

  “Nice to meet you, Seth,” Mum continues. “Well, would you look at that?” She says, looking at nothing. “It’s after midday and it’s time for lunch. Why don’t you join us, Seth? I’m making bacon sandwiches. I don’t usually, but with it being a holiday, and having company and everything…”

  I draw a line across my neck, desperately trying to cut her off. What the hell? She just invited my one-time date, who may or may not ask me out again, to lunch… with my parents.

  As if it couldn’t get any worse, Dad chimes in, “Yes. Please do join us.” He lowers his gaze and gives Seth a death glare. “Then we can find out all about you.”

  “I… umm… why not?” Seth gives me a desperate look, coupled with a weak smile.

  My hand hits my forehead. Jesus. Poor Seth.

  Chapter Ten

  Twenty minutes in and Mum hasn’t stopped talking, my cheeks are bright vermillion, and Dad glares at Seth, clearly trying his best not to blink. It should be a disaster… but it’s not.

  In those twenty minutes, I learn more about him than in the entirety of our date the other night.

  “So what do you do, Seth?” Mum asks.

  “I’m working as a mechanic, for now. But I’d like to re-do my A-Levels and, I don’t know, go to art school, or something like that.”

  “Not much of a steady job,” Dad says. “How do you propose to make a career after art school?”

  “Dad!” I say.

  “Simon!” Mum says.

  He looks at us both as though he doesn’t understand what he just did. Mum gives him one of her hard stares.

  “Well, I thought about graphic design. There are some full-time positions in that area,” Seth replies. He doesn’t seem particularly shocked or phased by my dad’s rudeness. I guess guys are used to sussing each other out.

  “Where do you live?” Mum continues her line of questioning.

  “A few minutes out of town.”

  “Who with?” she asks, mouth full of bacon and bread. I cringe, wishing this lunch over as soon as possible.

  “My mum.” He said it with some hesitation, but then swallows thickly, which makes me think that there’s more to the story.

  “Just your mum?”

  “Dad died when I was young.” His back stiffens and he shifts in his seat. The personal questions must be making him uncomfortable.

  Mum is falling for this guy faster than I am. “You poor dear. Have some extra mushrooms.”

  Seth flashes her his impish grin. “Thanks!”

  It’s probably a good job we might date, because otherwise I think Mum would have adopted him by now.

  “How old are you?” she continues.

  My turn to stiffen. I lied about my age and I have no idea how old Seth is. He looks about twenty. Please don’t be older, Dad will have a seizure.

  “Twenty. I’m twenty-one on Saturday.”

  “Really?” I blurt out.

  His eyes darken. At first I think it’s the shadow of a rain cloud overhead, but there’s definitely a glint in his expression—he human equivalent of the threat of rain, or a warning signal. “Yes.”

  “A mechanic, huh?” Dad asks. He gives Seth a cold glare. Part of me wants to sink into the ground. He’s so embarrassing. “So what were you doing at a carnival all on your own?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t on my own,” Seth replies. “I work there.”

  A smattering of red colours Dad’s neck and cheeks. “You work at the carnival, too?” He meets my eyes and I stare down at my food. “Mary failed to mention that.”

  Seth lets out a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on working there forever. I’m trying to save up, at the moment.”

  “That’s very admirable, dear. Why don’t you two go for a walk around the campsite?” Mum says. “I’m sure you’re sick of us fuddy-duddies cramping your style.”

  “I don’t think—” Dad starts.

  “That would be great, Mum, thanks.” I’m already on my feet pushing the chair back.

  “Thank you for the lovely lunch,” Seth says, avoiding my dad’s eye-contact.

  “You’re very welcome. Now, be careful.” Mum stares up at the sky. “It looks like rain.”

  We wave goodbye and walk away from the caravan, leaving my parents on their plastic garden furniture. I can hear them arguing in low voices. Mum mumbles, “Don’t be so stupid, Simon,” and clucks her tongue.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say. “I bet you didn’t intend to have a meal with my parents when you came looking for me.”

  “You’ve got a lovely family,” he says. We continue along the gravel path towards the near-by moorland. After a few moments he puts a hand on my arm and turns me around. “How old are you? Tell the truth this time.”

  “Seventeen,” I admit.

  He lets out a long breath. “Seventeen is cool. Any younger? Not cool, but seventeen is all right. Does it bother you that I’m older?”

  I shrug. “Most guys my age are like those lads at the fair. You certainly wouldn’t find them reading James Joyce in the sunshine.”

  Seth laughs again. “What if I was trying to impress you?”

  “Were you?” We start m
oving again, kicking the stones with our toes.

  “Maybe.”

  I grin down at my trainers. “Let’s walk on the moor,” I say. “Rain be damned.”

  “All right,” he replies.

  He helps me over the fence between the campsite and the moorland stretching beyond it. I could get used to those strong hands on my arms.

  We walk with my shoulder brushing his arm. He doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t drape an arm across my shoulder, or around my waist. There’s always this respectful distance that makes the paranoia in me wonder if he’s even interested.

  He sat through thirty minutes of chit-chat with your mother. Of course he’s interested.

  “What are you going to do for your twenty-first?” The moor grass is spongy underfoot. I talk whilst quelling the desire to throw myself on the floor and bounce.

  That dark look comes back. “Nothing.”

  “At all? Don’t you want a party with your friends?” I ask.

  “I don’t have any friends.” He shoves his hands into his jeans.

  “You have co-workers—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my birthday,” he snaps.

  “Then you shouldn’t have brought it up at lunch,” I snap back.

  We stop walking and stare at each other. My heart pounds. I’m torn between wanting to fight with him and wanting to kiss him, to grab his dark hair and pull him into me. Seth is quiet. The slight flash of temper disappears as quickly as it came. His eyes go back to their lazy, half-closed status.

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t,” he admits. He lets out a short laugh. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Attention whore,” I say, a smile playing at my lips.

  “Right again.” He returns the smile and we both laugh together.

  With the moment past, we turn back to the moors and stroll along, side by side. I can’t figure him out. Sometimes he doesn’t seem interested at all, and yet he does things like turn up at the campsite and agree to lunch with my parents. He spent the entire time being polite and courteous, so surely he likes me? Yet he’s always holding something back. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.