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

by Sarah Dalton

  Then silence.

  I’m alone in the bright white house.

  When sound becomes absent the world seems so small, as though we exist on our own, for the merest of moments. I forget that I’m part of a larger planet, and an even larger universe. It’s just me. And that’s nice.

  It doesn’t last long. Lacey appears next to me without any warning whatsoever. As always.

  “Ey up,” she says gruffly, imitating a deep Yorkshireman’s voice.

  “You scared me,” I chastise. “You’d think I’d be used to you cropping up whenever you fancy it.”

  “How’s the unpacking going? I’m criminally bored in the afterlife, Mares. We need to hang out someplace we can actually chat.”

  “Well, Mum’s gone for KFC so you’re in luck. Chat away, chatty girl.”

  “Oh, man, what I’d give for some fried chicken. Have you any idea how amazing it is to be alive? I could eat five bargain buckets on my own right now,” she says, licking her lips.

  “If you ate five buckets of chicken you wouldn’t live particularly long,” I point out.

  “It’d be worth it. Hey, seeing as you’re on your own, why don’t we do some snooping?” she says. “There could be some cool secrets in this house. Secret doors. Treasure, even. You saw how it’s hardly been changed since the 1800s or whatever.”

  “There’s no treasure,” I say. But the temptation to look around the house is overwhelming. “I guess a quick look won’t hurt.”

  Lacey’s eyes flash with mischief. “Now we’re talking. Come on. I bet all the juicy secrets are upstairs.”

  One thing I’ve learned since I realised I could see the dead is that when ghosts move, they flicker. They move with jerks and jumps. It’s never in a fluid motion. The effect is jarring at first. It looks so unnatural. It brings to mind all the scariest scenes in horror films when you realise that the person is behaving in such an inhuman way that they can’t be a person at all. But eventually, when your best friend is a ghost, you start to get used to it.

  Lacey has been practising her ability to move things. She can pick up small objects, such as books. In fact, she reads now. The first time I met Lacey she was reading, and it’s good to see that one little bit of normality back in her life. I shake my head. No, not life. Death.

  The stairs creak as I ascend, and it makes me smile. You can paint an old house. You can change the furniture and install new kitchens, but the skeleton of the house still creaks and moans like the wheezing chest of an old person. But at the top of the stairs, the long corridor stretches out bright white and new. I run my fingers along the paint while following Lacey into the furthest room.

  “This is Mum and Dad’s room,” I say.

  “You know, seeing as you’re moving schools and everything, you should get the biggest room,” she says.

  I shrug. “I don’t care. I enjoy looking out over the garden. I get most of the sun. And I have a window seat.”

  “You’re so chilled out in this house it’s creepy. And your mum. I heard her humming a few hours ago. What’s that all about?”

  “Don’t ask me. She never did it before. That woman is a mystery. So what are we doing in here? Did your ghost senses bring you here?”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Spider-Man, me. I don’t know. I guess so. It’s the furthest room away from the hall. Plus there are all these old built-in storage cupboards and shelves. There has to be something in here. I bet the people who used to live here have left old bits and bobs. Could be treasure. Open it. Come on.” Lacey indicates a tall storage unit built into the wall.

  It has a chipped crystal doorknob and is white, along with the rest of the room. I’m not sure what kind of wood it’s made of. When I tug on the handle, I realise the door is wedged in.

  “It’s stuck,” I say.

  “Try it again.”

  As I wrestle with the door, Lacey stalks around the room.

  “Why do you think it was empty all these years?” she says. “It’s such a nice house. It’s the kind of place people search for.”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question,” I say, straining against the stuck door.

  “There has to be a reason. Do you think there was a murder here? A proper scary one? It would put people off buying the house. Bad ju-ju and all that.”

  “I hope not,” I reply. “I’ve only just gotten rid of one murdered ghost. I don’t need to deal with another.”

  “I was murdered. Am I a burden as well?”

  “No, of course not. But you’re not obsessed with revenge.”

  “Yeah, well, my murderer snuffed it in a worse way than I did, so there’s not much revenge to be had,” she says with a shrug.

  “That’s true. I think it’s coming… there’s… movement…” I stagger back as the door finally loosens. The force of my pull has left me off balance and I almost trip onto the floorboards below.

  “Look.” Lacey nods towards the cupboard.

  I right myself and move towards the shelves. Now that the door is open, a musty stench filters through into the room. The shelves are lined with a floral paper, and each paper is mottled with mould and covered in dust.

  There are three items in the cupboard. One is an old comb. I lift it up to the light and examine it. A strand of blonde hair drops to the wooden floorboards. The comb itself is large, with wide teeth. It’s the kind of comb you see at car boot sales and antique fairs, mint green and made of a hard material similar to quartz or bone. The next item is a hand mirror. It’s silver and very fine, but old and dirty. It must have been beautiful when clean. The final item is the most interesting. It appears to be an old-fashioned jewellery box. I take it down from the shelf with care and head over to the bed, Lacey following me. It’s a strange thing to admit, but I can’t stop staring at the lid of the box and I’m dying to open it.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I say.

  Lacey gives me an odd look. “Yeah, I guess.”

  I don’t understand why she doesn’t agree right away. The box is silver, like the mirror, but it shines bright. There are carvings over the lid. Flowers and butterflies. It could be a child’s first jewellery box, where they would keep their little charm bracelets and odds and ends. I run my fingers over it, exploring the tiny grooves in the metal.

  “Open it,” Lacey says.

  I prise open the clasp at the front and lift the lid very gently. As I open it, my breath stops. Music, beautiful music rings out, and a tiny ballerina rotates in front of a mirror. At first my attention is caught by the tiny ballerina with her pink tutu and little blonde bun. The detail is exquisite, with the tutu made of a small piece of tulle, and her arms arched high above her head.

  “Mary,” Lacey says. I catch a low note of warning in her voice but choose to ignore it.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I breathe.

  The music continues. Tinkling bells. The chorus of childhood.

  “Can you believe it still works after all this time?” I say.

  “Mary,” Lacey repeats. “Don’t you recognise that song?”

  “Hmm?” I mutter, half listening, still watching the ballerina go round and round…

  “That song. Mary, listen to it.”

  “What about it?”

  “Just listen.”

  And then I realise. The rise and falls. The simple melody, reminiscent of a nursery rhyme I remember, but can never recall the name or words to. It’s the tune that Mum has been humming for the last week.

  “Well, it’s a coincidence,” I say.

  Lacey cocks her head to one side. “After everything we’ve been through, do you really believe that these kind of coincidences exist?”

  “She must have opened the cupboard and found it,” I reply.

  “You saw yourself that the door was stuck shut.”

  “It’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  There’s the sound of metal on metal and the front door opens. I slam the jewellery box shut and gather up the three items. Before Mum
gets through the house I hurry down the hall and into my new bedroom. Where to hide them? Where to hide them? Mum’s footsteps sound out on the tiles in the entrance.

  “Mary? I got you a three-piece and a large Coke. Is that all right?”

  “It’s fine, Mum. I’m coming,” I shout back. In the end I shove the items under my bed.

  “Is that wise?” Lacey says. “They could be—”

  “It’ll be fine,” I snap.

  Lacey narrows her eyes. “No one ever listens to the ghost.”

  “I’m listening, it’s just… I think you’re being dramatic, that’s all.”

  But as we leave, I glance down towards my bed. There’s a part of me aching to open the box again, to hear the music and watch the ballerina. I’ve never felt sad about a music box before, but when the music ends it leaves me with a lingering sadness, like when you’re apart from a loved one. All I want to do is open the box, but I can’t listen to it while Mum is around.

  Why not? says a small voice inside me.

  Because it’s mine.

  May 20th 1847

  In my last entry I remarked at how strange Lottie was acting. Well, perhaps I judged her too quickly. Lottie has been an absolute saint these last few days. She is nice to me, and nice to Miss Stevens. She does as she is told and Mama has been very pleased with her. It’s only Bess who won’t go near her. Only yesterday morning I walked into the kitchen to find Lottie alone with Bess at the table. They stared harshly, each scrutinising the other. Neither moved. Neither talked. It was so bizarre that I felt cold all over.

  Miss Stevens is quite a stickler. I hate French verbs but I love Geography. She says I have a knack for remembering capital cities.

  Papa keeps talking about getting a pup for the house. He thinks a guard dog would be a good idea for when he visits York, and I think it would be a good idea for me so I have a puppy to play with! Only Mama needs convincing now. Lottie seems disinterested, which is nothing like her usual self. She loves dogs. She loves all animals. She loves snails and slugs and spiders, too. But now she seems disinterested in everything.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t complain. After all, since Lottie has been like this she has completely left me alone. She doesn’t tease me anymore. I can get on with reading my books and playing with my dolls.

  What I can’t understand is that if Lottie is being so nice to me, why is it I want the old Lottie back so much?

  Liza

  Chapter Eight

  We’ve got the new house blues. Nothing works, the shower sputters. Dad isn’t around to fix things. We’re a cliché of girl parts and no DIY knowledge. Lacey knows some stuff, not because she’s a lesbian, but because she was the parent in her family. She manages to talk me through the Sky box and the microwave while Mum isn’t looking, but we’re all clueless as to why the internet and phone refuse to work. There are moments where the phone makes a crackling noise and then it dies. To make matters worse, there’s no mobile reception because we’re in the middle of nowhere. After a pointless morning of trying to fix things with no knowledge, it’s sandwiches and unpacking for us.

  We haven’t found any other interesting antiques left in the house, but every time I hear Mum hum that tune my blood freezes. Lacey stares at me with her brow furrowed, worried and edgy at my reaction, eyebrows knitted together in concern. I shake my head and try to ignore it, but the pull of the music box is intense. Deep down in my body I long to discover the uncovered secret that I believe is lurking within.

  “What are you wearing later, Mary?” Mum asks as she arranges the cutlery into our new kitchen drawers.

  “For what?”

  “For the dinner party at Mrs. Delacroix’s.”

  I’d completely forgotten about that. “So we’re going, then?”

  “I think it would be rude not to. After all, we’re new to this area. We want to fit in, don’t we?”

  “I guess so. There was something off about her, though. Don’t you think?” Just thinking about her puts my teeth on edge. After everything that happened in Nettleby, I don’t think I should be spending time with people who are so obviously into dark things. Emmaline is one of those people. A shadow-dweller. Drawn to the weird and wonderful. I think we recognise our own; that’s why she gave me that look in the woods.

  “Aren’t you intrigued?” Mum asks.

  I shrug, not wanting to admit it. “I guess so. She did mention that her parties are ‘different’. Whatever that means.”

  “Murder party?” Lacey suggests. “Or maybe everyone puts a key in the fruit bowl…”

  I try not to react to Lacey’s joke but feel my lips twitch as I try not to laugh.

  “Something funny?” Mum asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I cough in an attempt to cover it up. “I was thinking about a YouTube video about a cat.”

  “You’re so lame,” Lacey says.

  Mum nods and returns to the cutlery. She really is distracted. A few weeks ago she would have been all over that blatant lie. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried. And another strange thing: there is no way my mum would ever attend a dinner party run by someone as eccentric as Emmaline. Mum doesn’t do strange. She does sales at Marks and Spencer and barbecues with the neighbours, not mysterious dinner parties with unusual guests.

  A few hours later—after a good amount of bickering over where pictures should be hung and a display cabinet should be placed—Mum and I leave the house for the first time since we moved in. I’m wearing a knee length skirt and a purple blouse with a wide belt. I could probably pass for an interviewee at an office, but it’s the only thing I could find that didn’t need ironing, and the plug for the iron short circuited this afternoon. The electrician is coming round tomorrow.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Mum kept saying for the rest of the day. The humming got worse, faster and louder and tinged with desperation.

  For the dinner party, Mum wears a grey dress I’ve never seen before. The shoulders are padded and the material seems cheap. It tapers in around her knees with a short split up the back. There’s a faint smell of mustiness as though Mum has dragged this particular item out from the back of the wardrobe. It’s a tighter outfit than I’m used to seeing Mum in, and the design suggests she hasn’t worn it for at least a decade. Usually, when we go somewhere nice, Mum adds a pashmina to her boot-cut jeans and satin top. Perhaps it is the move that’s bringing this out of her, this new confidence. Or maybe it’s all the unpacking, I’ve already set aside a mini-skirt I’d stopped wearing a year ago.

  We make our way around the rear of the house and follow a path that looks as though it leads directly into the woods. However, it swings to the left and ducks under low-hanging willow trees that lead to a charming stone-fronted cottage. Hanging baskets filled with purple flowers dangle either side of the wide wooden door, and there are neat lines of potted plants lined up under the windows. Behind the house I see a tall Mulberry tree with branches leaning forward over the cottage, almost like a predator leans over its victim. It casts much of the cottage into shadow, and I would expect takes up most of the garden. Five cars are parked up along the drive. All of them are black.

  Mum smoothes her dress and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. We’re both suffering from the lack of hair straighteners. We both have unruly, thick, dark hair that hates moisture. Lacey rubs up close behind me and I sense the familiar chill and crackle of static. There’s a doorbell in an ornate little case with birds in flight escaping from a cage. Mum presses the button and a deep ding-dong rings out.

  “Well, what a peculiar little house this is,” Mum says, her gaze trailing over the creeping ivy, the dusty window ledges and the peep of black curtains.

  “Did you expect anything less?” I remark.

  “I have a bad feeling, Mares,” Lacey whispers in my ear, making the hairs around my temples stand on end. “This places gives me the creeps, and I’m a ghost.”

  From the other side of the door there’s a laugh followed by conversation
from two or three voices. Heels click and the doorknob rattles. Two seconds later it’s pulled open with a flourish and Emmaline Delacroix stands before us, a vision in black lace. I smother a gasp. Her face is virtually covered with the lace, which I think is even more disturbing than the burns. Only her eyes are visible and once again they are drawn straight to the scar on my neck.

  “Well, hello, Susan and Mary Hades. Come in, darlings. You must have a glass of Kir Royale. I made it with champagne, of course. It’s gorgeous. Come in, come in, all of you.” She stares right through me as she says that.

  “I think she knows I’m here,” Lacey whispers.

  We step into the little house, and immediately it seems as though the walls are closing in on me. The ceilings are low, beamed, and uneven. There’s a strange odour lingering in the air, akin to the fusty face powder used by grandmas. The kind old ladies apply with silver-coated powder puffs. As soon as I imagine it, I think of the music box. Emmaline, who is directing us through the hallway, turns to me with narrowed eyes full of curiosity. I get the feeling she’s attempting to suss me out, but I can’t figure out why.

  The two of us, and my ghostly best friend, are ushered into a long dining room filled by a large mahogany table. It’s a room that pays homage to an era long gone, with lace doilies and artificial flowers. The walls are wood panelled, which is out of place in such a small cottage. It should be the feature of a large library in a stately home. The place is covered in taxidermy, with the severed head of a stag staring down at us, its nostrils flared and eyes rolled back into its head. I shudder away, trying not to see the rest of the dead animals, from a squirrel on its hind legs to a fox in mid-trot. They are heaped precariously atop Emmaline’s large chest of drawers.

  Around the table sit the guests.

  “Holy moly,” Lacey whispers. “It’s like she brought the circus in.”

  And while I think Lacey is being a little harsh on the odd people in the room, she does have a point. There’s one lady dressed completely in Victorian attire. From the high-necked lace blouse, to the taffeta skirt, to her hair piled up in curls and plaits. She’s around fifty, with heavy rouge on her cheeks and a very straight back. Next to her is a young girl with very pale, drooping blue eyes. Despite her drooping eyes she seems to only be in her teens, with greasy blonde hair and a thin t-shirt. Mum glances at her with a wary expression.