Poulton
12:35
Not joking. Where the fuck are you?
Poulton
13:55
I’m cutting class.
Coming over.
Answer the door.
Poulton
14:15
Zoey WTF?!
Zo-Zo
14:17
Sorry lost signal.
I left.
I’m going to Mill House.
No more delays.
I need answers.
Poulton
14:18
You scared the shit out of me.
What the hell are you thinking?
We were going together at half term
Zo-Zo
14:19
I’m sorry Pole but I can’t wait.
I’m going alone.
Poulton
14:25
You’re a pest.
I’ll come at the end of the week.
Did you pack enough food to stay alive until then?
Zo-Zo
14:29
LMAO yes.
Poulton you are amazing. Would die without you.
Poulton
14:30
I fucking know you would. Be careful.
Zo-Zo
14:32
Will do. And Pole?
Don’t tell my mum
ANYTHING.
Poulton
14:34
You’re killing me.
Keep in touch
October 18
This was a really stupid fucking idea.
I’m going to record everything, just in case. I don’t know what’s going to happen, or how I’ll be affected, but I know that if I keep a record, keep it logical, and keep myself inside these pages, I’ll be harder to lose. It’ll be harder to lose my grip on reality. This is security. This is what’s happening. In my own words.
The field where I’m camped is behind the station platform—if you can call it that. The train I took to get here pulled up after it was already getting dark. Pretty sure this is the right place, but it was unnerving that there were no signs. Not even a station building. Just the platform and stairs leading down to a small road. I had to stop myself running after the train when it pulled away.
I will not be a coward.
I really hope there are no cows. Do they keep cows in Wales? I just don’t want to be trampled to death. Do cows stampede?
Shit, Zoey.
Really good plan.
So, I’m eight months early. Eight months before Pole and I planned, but it just feels, I don’t know… necessary. It’s been coming for years. This fight with Mum. I guess I always knew she felt that way, like I’ve always been heading down Dad’s path too, but… she said it. She said it out loud. And it basically confirms that she’s thought it, really thought I might be crazy, since Dad came back. Since I was a little kid. Years.
Well. Now that it’s finally been said, I can acknowledge it.
This is what happened. (Write it down, Zoey.) Just fucking write it.
Okay, so Dad was always obsessed with our family tree. He was adopted, so that’s pretty normal. But what we can do… that’s not so normal. We can kind of… make things happen. Dad was the one who showed me. Some herbs, some symbols, candles. And then… things change. I guess you’d call it magic, or whatever, but he always called it Working. When Pole found out, he called it wish fulfillment. The whole calling-for-the-things-we-want-and-getting-them thing. We wish for things… we get them. No matter what they are.
Except each time Dad Worked, he lost a memory or forgot how to do something. He noticed this when he was around my age and had already been wishing for things for years. He only lost small things at first. He’d forget that he’d already taken a shower. He’d forget that he was hungry and get weak. But then the things got bigger. He forgot his birth date. He forgot his best friend’s name. He said it was the price for bending the world to our will.
Working to get what he wanted cost him a memory. Every single time.
For years he’d test my memory. Math, names, dates, my favorite foods and TV shows. A perfect score. Immunity, wahoo!
Yeah, no.
The first few times I Worked, there was no price. Not until Mum asked what we were up to in the garage and, at a little look from Dad, I lied. I don’t remember what I said. Or how long it took. All I remember is the red. The pain. The blood.
That’s how we discovered that my price is honesty. If I tell a lie after Working, then I bleed. Or worse. Eventually Dad and I figured out that if I had to lie after Working, I could prevent the uncontrollable pain and the blood if I gave myself a little pain and blood first. Like a preventative atonement. Deposit blood, withdraw safety.
Anyway, getting off track.
Dad became obsessed with this one particular place. Mill House. It was listed as his place of birth on his adoption papers, except we know that was a fake, since Mill House has been a ruin for at least a century. But still. The name was there. So he got curious. I think he thought it had something to do with his family tree. Maybe his birth parents owned it. Maybe he was due to inherit it, if he could discover who his birth parents were and prove their ownership.
He started researching it, talking about it, dreaming about it.
So when I was around seven, he left to go and find out everything he could about it. There was a big row with Mum. We weren’t exactly rolling in cash and he was going to go off for who knew how long, using what little money we had chasing what might, in the end, turn out to be a pipe dream. I didn’t care. I wanted him to go. I wanted to go with him. An adventure… a real adventure!
But when he came back he was gone. Just… his mind was gone. He was insane, or something like it. He didn’t really know us. He almost choked me to death—and then he forgot us completely.
Something happened there. I know it. I used to think that maybe he Worked something too big to handle. Wished for something that carried too high a price for one person to pay. It’s possible. It’s likely. But he kept talking about the house. He kept talking about the things he saw there—ghosts, visions… crazy shit.
I was angry with him for so long. Let Mum divorce him and lock him away with social services. But then I found his papers.
And after that… I saw the thing at the foot of my bed. I was so terrified of going to sleep because almost every night, a shape—a dark, mangled shape—would appear at the foot of my bed and just… stare at me. It would twitch and try to move, and try to speak. Eventually, I heard it. The thing—it was female. A graveled, female voice saying Mill House over and over.
Getting tired. Didn’t mean to write that much, but needed the distraction. Mum, in case you find this—I’m sorry. Sorry I left without saying good-bye. And sorry we had that fight. I’m also sorry you think I’m insane. Whatever, though—I’m doing this for me. For Dad. I still care about him, even if you don’t.
I’ve waited nine years for a chance.
And, look… I know you might be right and the madness runs in my blood. Maybe I’m doomed to be a crazy middle-aged woman who doesn’t even know her own name, bleeding from her cuticles. But I really don’t think so. I feel it in my bones. Wish you could understand.
So, yeah.
I could go nuts.
But I have to do it anyway.
It’s really dark. Funny how a thin layer of tent fabric gives the illusion of safety—of invisibility. I’m probably a bright orange beacon out here in this field, but somehow I feel safe in my little bubble of air, all to myself, my flashlight hanging from the ceiling hook. Writing in here feels safe.
God. Please don’t let anyone murder me tonight.
Switching off the light now.
Zo-Zo
23:53
Safe and sound.
Miss you.
Poulton
23:55
That took ages.
Zo-Zo
23:56
You’d love it here.
<
br /> There are no humans.
Poulton
23:57
You calling me a misanthrope?
Zo-Zo
23:57
Of course.
Poulton
23:58
Watch out for crazy pervs out there.
Zo-Zo
23:59
OMFG.
Sleepy.
Poulton
00:00
Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Or the ghouls grab.
Or the ghosts boooooooo.
Zo-Zo
00:01
Sadist.
October 19
I found a pub.
When I came in, the seven or eight burly men sitting at the bar stopped what they were doing and stared at me. So I just sat down and pretended to stare at the menu for a while. Now I’m writing in here so I don’t look too unnerved.
—
The woman behind the bar just came over. She’s in her forties, I think. Maybe older. She didn’t scowl per se, but she definitely gave me a look.
“Helpu chi?” she said.
“Huh? Oh, sorry—I don’t speak Welsh.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” she said, but she leaned closer and added, “But don’t let the lads hear you say that.” She winked to let me know she was joking and I relaxed a bit. “What can I get you?”
I asked for a coke and whatever the wonderful beefy smell was.
She looked really happy. “That’s my cawl. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
She started to turn away, but then changed her mind.
“You all alone?”
I said my friend was meeting me soon, figuring that it was better for my own safety if they didn’t think I was completely isolated. Besides, it’s true. “Soon” being the end of the week.
“Ah, good. Off for a hiking holiday in the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not exactly the best weather for it. You should come back in summer.”
I told her I was more of an autumn creature.
She laughed at that, throwing her head back, and the men at the bar chuckled. “That’s charming! An autumn creature. Well. Mountains can get a bit boggy. Best to stay closer to the pub than anything.”
I was stupid enough to blurt that we were going a little farther out. I regretted it right away. Her eyes narrowed and she asked where. I told her the next mountain over—God, why, Zoey, WHY? I should have just said I was training for school’s summer hike.
She just said, “I’ll get you that cawl,” and left.
Everyone’s looking at me. I’m just going to keep pretending to ignore it.
Zo-Zo
15:33
Weirdest encounter with local.
Warned away. Must be close!
Poulton
15:55
Sorry for delay.
Your text buzzed my phone in physics.
Prof took it off me.
Local warnings… Grim. You still ok?
Zo-Zo
15:56
Shit, sorry.
Keep forgetting you’re still in class.
Did I miss anything good?
Poulton
15:57
Your mum came in to speak to me.
She hasn’t called the police. YET.
Zo-Zo
15:58
Just tell her I’m fine.
But that I don’t want to see her after
what she said to me.
Poulton
16:00
She was worried you were with your dad.
I told her you’re not.
She knows you’ve gone to the mountain.
(I didn’t say)
Zo-Zo
16:03
Fair enough.
She doesn’t know where it is. We’re fine.
Poulton
16:05
We should tell someone where we’re going.
For safety.
Zo-Zo
16:10
I’ll text Dexter the location.
Poulton
16:11
Your five yr old brother has a phone?
And why?
Zo-Zo
16:14
It’s an ancient Nokia.
Mum gave it to him for that snake game.
But my stepdad Greg checks it every few days. It’ll be a backup.
Poulton
16:16
Clever.
Zo-Zo
16:18
You don’t have a monopoly on intelligence.
Almost, but not quite.
Trail getting harder. Ttyl xxx
Chapter 6
HEY, DAD, MISS ME?
October 19
I feel bad about lying to Poulton about texting my brother my location. But the last thing I need is my mother coming to get me before I can find out anything. But the guilt is eating at me, so I take a selfie and scrutinize it.
I process the world through photos. It’s like I don’t really see things until they’ve been captured by a lens first, then laid out before me. I noticed it when Poulton tagged me on Facebook the first time we had a sleepover and I realized—holy shit, I have to clean my room. Like, before I saw the photo, I had no idea I was living in a Pepsi-Cola ad. (I stopped drinking Pepsi after that photo too.)
It’s not like I’m blind—I just don’t notice things until I look through my camera. You should see my bullet journal. If not for my HP Sprocket, I’d be screwed. Now I take photos of everything.
I’ve got my phone and I’ve got my instant camera and the digital. I hope it’s enough. The mountain is tough. Loads of rocks, muddy. My only comfort is knowing that Dad’s footsteps were here once. Maybe exactly where mine are now. Was he this cold? Was he surrounded by nothing, like me? Did he feel alone? Was he excited? Was he thinking of me and Mum?
It feels like whatever part of Dad was lost is here, now, hanging in the air.
Hey, Dad. Miss me?
This is what I know about Mill House so far:
• In 1906, Meddwyn Water Mill (“Mill House”) was owned by an institute, not a person.
• The institute in question, Maudley Foundation—doesn’t exist as far as I can tell. I haven’t found a single thing about the foundation anywhere. No references online, no mention—literally nothing. How does that happen? And then who put Dad’s place of birth as Mill House? Were his biological parents part of the foundation? Or is the foundation a cover for something else?
• After that, no one knows. Who owns it now? Where are the records? Why the secrecy?
• Nothing about a sale of Mill House was ever publicly recorded, and I couldn’t find a record of any deeds in Dad’s files on the house. The only mention of the name “Maudley” was in local papers of the time (Gwynedd Post, Plas Twywell Piper), which featured small items of local news in a side column. (I can’t actually take credit for finding those papers. Dad spent almost ten years tracking them down and getting the names.)
• Dad’s notebook says that there was a Maudley Foundation address (registered somewhere in London), but that he lost the notebook where he’d written it down, thinking he could go back to the library where he’d found the original mention in the archive later—but the entry vanished. That was in 1998.
• The Gwynedd Post printed a small announcement that the last will and testament of Arthur Gordon Eddington, London, had stated that his only surviving daughter, Roan Evelyn Eddington, was to be sent to Meddwyn Mill, Gwynedd, and there placed under the guardianship of a Dr. A. Maudley until she turned twenty-one or married.
• That will was written only one week before his death in late August back in 1851. Which means that “A. Maudley” was likely the founder of the foundation/institute in his name.
• Roan Eddington’s death certificate is dated 1852, location Meddwyn “Mill” House. Hers was the last individual name associated with the property. Could she be Dad’s—my—ancestor? I checked out he
r name online and got nothing.
So my questions remain:
—Who was Roan Eddington? (Possibly related to me?)
—Why did Dad have her death certificate?
—What was her link to the relatively unknown Dr. Maudley? (And WHO IS MAUDLEY?)
—What is the Maudley Foundation and where is it based today?
—Why has the house been left empty for so long? (Does Dad have a claim to it?)
—What did Dad find? Will I find the same thing?
—Legends of witchcraft on the mountain persist to this day: Are they true? (Linked to what Dad and I can do and the price we have to pay?)
—Could Dad have known about the shape at the foot of my bed?
WHAT HAPPENED?
October 20
I’m doing it, Dad. I’m going.
Chapter 7
HELL IN BLUE
The entrance hall is gloomy. Mrs. Goode announces her approach with her pointed clock-like step.
“Ah, Miss and Mr. O’Brien. Welcome.” She gives Roan a terse nod. “Now that I have you all here, I will explain the house rules. Shortly, I will show you to your quarters. Breakfast is served daily at eight o’clock, lunch at noon, and supper at six precisely. There is a nightly curfew of nine o’clock, and there is to be absolutely no wandering beyond that hour.”
“Do I look like a child?” Emma mutters under her breath, and Mrs. Goode’s head snaps in her direction. Roan cannot suppress a snort.
“The house,” Mrs. Goode says stiffly, “is not kind in darkness.”
The mountain is not kind in darkness.
“It is for your own safety,” the housekeeper adds. “The West Wing is off-limits on the ground level.”
Teeth in the Mist Page 4
