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

by Sarah Dalton

  When I look at her in this moment I see her faults, her anxious controlling nature, her desire to know everything about me without listening to what I have to say, the way she cuts Dad off when he tries to give his opinion.

  She stares at me when I don’t reply, unblinking. “Answer me, Mary. Where have you been?”

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  Her face tightens until it has that pinched look of jealousy. I asked the question on purpose as a reminder that Dad and I get on far better than me and her. It was mean and my cheeks flush with embarrassment. She lifts her chin and says, “He’s in bed.”

  “So he wasn’t concerned enough to wait up for me. He trusts me.” I raise my eyebrows.

  “You go, girl,” Lacey says.

  Mum unfolds her arms and slaps them down on her legs with a sigh. “No, he was tired. He’s been going through lesson plans all day. I’m the one who knew as soon as you walked out that door you weren’t going to a party, not dressed like that. And now you come home with your t-shirt ripped, your jeans covered in mud. What’s going on, Mary?”

  “Well,” I say, my heart pounding, searching desperately for an explanation. “I… was…”

  “…mugged,” Lacey suggests.

  “Someone tried to mug me on the way home,” I say. That man kind of did, and might actually have, if Lacey hadn’t punched him in the balls, anyway. “I tripped and fell, ripped my t-shirt. It’s… it’s muddy outside the community centre. That’s where she had the party. It was in a bit of a rough area.”

  “She had her eighteenth in a community centre?” Mum asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  “It was all they could afford, you know, to rent. That’s why I didn’t bother getting dressed up.”

  “Nailed it,” Lacey says. “That shit is watertight.”

  But Mum is still assessing me with narrowed eyes, and I can tell she’s trying to figure out the lie. I rarely get anything past her. It’s amazing how mothers are part-caregiver-part-detective-part-sniffer-dog, waiting for that first hint of bullshit.

  “Mary, you’re seventeen, and your father and I want to give you more responsibility, but you have to give us a reason to trust you. What happened in Nettleby was irresponsible and, well, just plain stupid. A man died on those moors.”

  I clench my fists and close my eyes, and the panic I felt that night seeps back into me like a draft through an open door. That night is forever etched on my memory, a dark, cold blot in my history. “Don’t you think I realise that?”

  “I know,” she says. “I know, honey. But how are we supposed to trust you now? You make bad decisions—”

  I sigh. “Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

  “No,” she says, her voice rising. “Because tomorrow you’ll get your dad on your side and no one will discuss it.” A tiny bit of spit flies from her mouth.

  “That’s because Dad still trusts me, even if you don’t.” I turn to leave.

  “We’ve not finished this conversation, young lady,” she says, and I hear a shuffle of cloth against cloth as she gets to her feet.

  “What are you going to do? Put me in an asylum again?” I swing the living room door open and stride out with Lacey on my heels.

  “That was awesome, Mares,” she says.

  But I don’t think it was awesome at all. If I thought it was awesome, I wouldn’t have unshed tears burning my eyes, wanting desperately to be released. When I found out I could see ghosts, I knew it would be difficult. I knew I would have to hide who I am from the world. When I learned how to use the Athamé, I thought that I’d get to perform good deeds for both my world and the spirit world. But I didn’t realise how hard it would be. I didn’t realise how isolated I would feel.

  As I trudge into my room and peel away my dirty clothes, all I can think about is the man on the bus, his fingers digging into my shoulder. Is that what I should expect from now on? Dangerous bus journeys at night sat next to drunks and weirdoes? I suppose I never thought about the world I’m choosing to inhabit, the one without the shiny glean of middle-class life, the one with grit and dirt and realism. That’s not even considering the ghosts, the deaths, and the monsters.

  “Hey, she’ll come round,” Lacey says. She sits on the end of my bed and tucks her legs beneath her. “It’s only because she doesn’t understand you.”

  I nod, reluctant to talk. The last thing I need is Mum walking past my bedroom door listening to me talk to myself.

  “She doesn’t understand what you have to do. Anyway, you’ll be eighteen soon. You can do what you want then.”

  I’m not eighteen for almost six months, and because I had a meltdown during the last school year I’m going to have to start my A-Levels again. That means another two years of school. Two years before I can go to University or get a job to pay for my own accommodation. But Lacey is right about the freedom that number will bring. At least after I’m eighteen I won’t have to worry about Mum sending me to the psychiatric ward again.

  I sit down next to Lacey in my pyjamas and tug a hairbrush through my tangled locks.

  “Don’t give up,” Lacey says. “What we did today was important. We helped that ghost find peace.”

  I turn to her and smile.

  “Hover hug?” she asks.

  I nod enthusiastically. My ghost friend wraps her arms around me, hovering a centimetre from my skin. Electricity crackles around us, prickling my skin. It takes Lacey a lot of effort and energy to touch. She can hold books, throw rocks, punch drunks in the balls, but it takes a lot out of her. So when we need to hug, we hover.

  I pull back the sheets and climb into bed.

  “I think I’ll stick around tonight, if that’s all right with you,” Lacey asks.

  “Sure,” I whisper. Truth is, it will be nice to have her company. I’ve been having bad dreams lately.

  *

  The next morning I wake with a stiff shoulder and an uneasy feeling. Lacey is gone, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because I get some privacy to change in for once, disappointed at the thought of being alone with my thoughts. Since I returned from Nettleby last month I’ve been experiencing nightmares. They started out pretty standard, what you would imagine after such a traumatic event. Or should I say, events, because at first I’m in a fire and someone is calling my name. It’s Lacey. She’s alive, barely, consumed by the flames, disfigured and flaking away one bit at a time. Then I’m spat out onto the moors, on my hands and knees, searching for an unknown item. As I search, my hands find a pool of blood, and from there, Igor. Zombie Igor with grey skin. He opens his shirt and his chest is transparent, revealing a black heart beneath. That’s when I usually wake up.

  But for a week now I’ve experienced a different nightmare. I never remember the dream, not fully. I get a sense of being watched, and of a gathering power. When I wake and bolt up in bed, the air thrums. I can hear it. Like a low bass line, or a growling cat, or the percussion in a horror film, it’s there beneath the surface, waiting for me. Pulling me. And this dark energy is a form of craving. I want it.

  I drag my fingers through my hair. This is all a reaction to everything that’s happened to me in the last few months. I need to be stronger, that’s all. If I’m going to keep tracking down ghosts I need to learn to live in their world, to block out the dark and be the best person I can be. There has to be a way to be a ghost hunter and a regular person at once. I will go insane if there isn’t.

  It’s Saturday, which means all the parents are around and I’m dreading it. Over the cornflakes Mum will cajole Dad into siding with her, forcing him into a half-hearted lecture. He’s a good man, Dad, and sometimes we get this air of conspiratorial rebellion against Mum. It’s probably not fair, but we do. And the thing is, Mum is the one holding everything together day in day out. It’s easy to forget everything she does for us when she’s giving me disapproving glares over our toast and orange juice.

  I shower, dress, drag a comb through my hair and pad down the stair
s, expecting the usual sounds of plates clattering against plates. It’s quiet, too quiet, especially considering how angry Mum should be. The plate clattering usually crescendos during one of her moods.

  But this morning Mum and Dad are sat together on the sofa. They’re dressed and pristine, with straight backs and neutral expressions. My first reaction is that something bad must have happened. I don’t have grandparents anymore. There’s only Aunt Izzy in Scarborough and she was fine a few weeks ago.

  “Uh-oh,” I say, forcing myself to smile. “I didn’t realise half an hour was such a big deal these days. Is it back to the looney bin for me?”

  Mum looks away, her jaw clenched. Dad gives me a glare.

  “Mary, that isn’t appropriate,” he says.

  Their stern expressions send a chill over my skin. “What’s going on?”

  “We need to talk to you. It’s important. And, I’m afraid, you’re probably not going to like it,” Dad says.

  Chapter Three

  I love my house. I love the steep hill to get to it. When it snows I don’t have to go to school. Instead, I used to meet up with some of the girls from down the road and we’d sledge down the hill. In the summer I free-wheeled my bike as fast as I could before the exhilarating terror of being out of control set in.

  Even Mum loves this house. It’s the house where I was born.

  Dad came to Sheffield for a job interview and was told that he “wasn’t the right candidate” for the position. However, a month later the “right” candidate dropped out, forcing Dad into a last-minute decision. Luckily Mum fell in love with our Victorian terrace, meaning that life at the Hadeses’ stayed civil.

  Mum ended up moving house a heavily pregnant woman. Almost nine months, to be exact.

  She went into labour on a Sunday afternoon while enjoying a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. You wouldn’t imagine that the most boring woman in the world would have an interesting birth story, but somehow Mum ended up giving birth on a brand-new memory foam mattress, surrounded by half unpacked boxes. I can imagine Dad fussing around with a cold flannel, saying things like: “You can do it, Susie Q,” “One more push,” or making a terrible joke of it. “Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.” I can imagine the furious looks Mum gave him.

  Needless to say, they threw the mattress out. But not the memory.

  Which is why their announcement floors me.

  “Mary,” Mum says. “We’ve got a buyer for the house.”

  “What? When did you put the house up for sale?” I ask.

  “Well, we didn’t,” Dad explains. “You know how I’ve been working in Leeds for the last few months?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Lacey appears next to me so suddenly that I start. Dad’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Caught a draft.”

  “Lame excuse,” Lacey says. I would turn and glare at her but that would only bring more attention to my weird behaviour.

  “Well, the commute has taken a lot out of me, and the school term hasn’t properly begun yet. Once it does, I’ll see even less of you. Your mother has come up with an amazing solution. If you give it a chance, I think you might grow to enjoy it. I think it’ll be good for us all.”

  “There’s a woman at my work who wants to move to this area,” Mum puts in. “She has this gorgeous old house further north, two minutes from the motorway to Leeds. It would cut your Dad’s commute time in half, and it’s in a lovely quiet little village.”

  “You’re moving?” Lacey says. “Man, that was sudden.”

  The word “village” sinks my heart. I hate villages. I love cities.

  “I wonder if it’s like Nettleby,” Lacey whispers in my ear.

  A shudder runs down my spine. I hope not.

  “It’s next to a gorgeous little woodland area,” Mum continues. “And the house is bigger. It needs a little work, but the woman selling the house has accepted a low offer so we can afford it.”

  “In fact, we’ve decided to swap houses,” Dad says, with a ridiculous grin on his face.

  My back straightens in response. “You what?”

  “The paperwork is nearing completion. As it’s a straight swap, there’s very little to do and we’ve managed to push things through faster. Beryl is going to give us the keys early so we can move sooner rather than later. It’s going to be fantastic, Mary. You can settle in a few weeks before school—”

  “Am I moving schools?” I interrupt.

  Mum and Dad share a look that screams guilt. “Yes, it’s a little far for you to stay at your regular school.”

  It should bother me less than it does. I’ve not been friends with most of the girls in my school for a long time. They didn’t stick by me when I went through my difficulties. I came out of the hospital with a big “crazy” stamp on my forehead. Even still, the change is a big one.

  “I have to change schools? But what about my exams?” I protest.

  “I’ve already checked the curriculum,” Dad says, ever the teacher. “And it’s going to be fine. You’re starting from the beginning again anyway. It’s a good school, and I can arrange for a few extra classes.”

  “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” I say. It’s annoying me that I’m reacting so badly. After all, it’s the logical choice. “Except talking to me about it.”

  Mum and Dad exchange a look. Mum says, “We did mention that we ought to find a place nearer to Dad’s work. Don’t you remember, honey?”

  There are warning bells going off in my mind. Mum has that cautious look on her face that means she’s worried. It’s the same look she gives me when she asks if I’ve taken my anti-psychotics.

  “Yeah, I remember. But I still would have preferred to be involved in the decision.”

  “Do you remember?” Lacey gives me a funny look. I try not to notice.

  “It’s just that you’ve been a little distracted recently,” Mum continues. Her voice hardens. “Especially when you stay out at all hours. Is everything all right? There isn’t anything you want to tell us, is there?”

  I force myself to smile. “It’s fine. It’s a big change, that’s all.” I think back to the confrontation with Mum last night and the way I stormed out of the living room. Did she know then?

  “Because this is a fresh start for us,” she continues. “In so many ways. This summer has been very hard on us all, especially you. We think this place will be a nice, quiet spot with a good school for you to settle into. We’re moving forward as a family, and we need to be honest with each other.”

  A wave of heat washes over me. Honesty would have been telling me about this from the beginning, but I bite my tongue. As annoyed as I am, the thought of another argument is unappealing. And, as much as I hate to admit it, part of me agrees with her. My stomach has been in knots at the thought of returning to my old school, the place where my friend Anita died in a fire, and the students call me Scary Mary.

  Dad crosses the space between us and pulls me into a bear hug. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see. The house is beautiful. It has so much character.”

  “Sure,” I reply. “It’ll be lovely.”

  Mum wrings her hands together. “It will be. I know it will.”

  I get the impression she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

  “I’m going to go up to my room,” I say after an uncomfortable silence. “Listen to music for a while.”

  “All right, sweetheart,” Mum says with a smile.

  It’s strange how you notice things about your house as soon as you’re aware you won’t be living there anymore. The smoothness of the pine handrail leading up the stairs. The creak in the fourth step. The tiny dent in the wall where you fell when slightly tipsy from a night with friends. And how you told your parents it was from tripping on the way to the shower.

  My room seems like a safe haven. Lacey steps through the wall next to me, her face set in unusual pity.

  “Sorry, Mares,” she says. “It’s pretty nice here. You must be gutted.
But, hey, the next place could be just as nice.”

  “I guess,” I say. I flop onto my bed, deciding to allow myself at least a few moments of wallowing. “But what if it isn’t? What if it’s a hole? I mean, why do parents get to decide everything for us?”

  “Because they’re old.” She leans against my hi-fi and nudges it with her hip. Radio One blares out the latest hits. “They aren’t wise or clever or any of that. They’re just old. They don’t have much of a clue what to do with us all, you know? I swear they make it all up as they go along.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You’re pretty wise for a ghost.”

  She grins. “Death puts things into perspective. Hey, you want another hover hug?”

  I nod. Lacey kneels on the bed and we hug. A chill spreads over my skin and the hairs stand up on my arms. A little crackle of static electricity sparks between us. Close proximity to a ghost makes you feel alive in such a way that you could describe it as addictive. No wonder ghost hunters become obsessed with the chase.

  “Better?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “It might not be so bad. You can make new friends, I guess.” Lacey flashes me a sheepish grin.

  Since she died—months ago now—we’ve had what you might call a complicated relationship. I still feel guilty about the circumstances of her death (it was supposed to be me) and she clings to me a little too tightly (because she hasn’t got anyone else). Which makes things suffocating at best, and fractious at worst.

  Then there’s the prickly issue of Lacey’s moving on. Ghosts aren’t meant to stay on this plane of existence; at least that’s what I’ve gleaned from my experience as someone who can talk to the dead. Aside from Lacey I’ve only met twisted or bored ghosts who can’t be trusted and who try to harm the living. I don’t want Lacey to become one of them. But then I don’t want her to move on, either.