by Sam Short
She stepped backwards. The note was no longer merely moving — it was unfurling, as if an invisible hand was preparing it for reading.
With narrowed eyes, she stared at the note. Her heart thudded hard against the wall of her chest as she read it. No. She had to be wrong. It was impossible.
There they were, though. Words which she was convinced hadn’t been written when she’d first read the note. A single sentence written in a neat hand at the bottom of the page. She lifted the note, touching it with care. Nervous of it. She read the newly materialised words.
P.S Before you make any rash decisions about not leaving London behind, you should listen to the two voice messages on your phone.
With trembling fingers, she slid the note back into the envelope. Those words hadn’t been there before.
She grabbed her phone. The two missed calls were still displayed on the screen, and a further notification told her she had voice messages. She dialled the message service, waiting to hear Henry’s voice, and wondering how he’d acquired her phone number, and what it was he had to say to her.
A minute later she placed the phone on the sideboard and took a seat, her legs suddenly wobbly. How could Henry have known? Had he hacked her message service? No, that was impossible. And anyway, the appearance of the fresh words on the note was far more unnerving than a potential phone hacking incident.
She re-ran the voice messages through her mind. One from the police telling her the investigation into the con-woman had been put on the back boiler for the time being, due to the lack of any leads, and the second message from her landlord, telling her the building she lived in had been classed as unsafe for human habitation. Millie was to vacate the premises by the following morning.
Millie believed the universe had plans for people. She didn’t believe in a higher power, but she believed that when a person received signs, they should take heed of them.
She took a steadying breath and reached for the envelope. The train ticket felt cold between her fingers, and as she studied the destination name, the same coldness ran through her veins.
Chapter 3
As the train left the urban landscape behind and chugged through the countryside, heading for the south coast of England, Millie allowed herself a smile. She glanced at her ticket. The destination name seemed a lot less sinister when read against the moving backdrop of rolling hills and a bright blue sky, than it had in a dingy basement flat.
Anyway, she’d Googled it. Of course she had. She wasn’t that stupid. Spellbinder Bay seemed like a normal small coastal town. A tourist destination in the summer, and a regular fishing town all year round. Google had informed her that the town had acquired its name because of the abundance of a certain species of seaweed which flourished in the bay, a seaweed which had gained the nickname Spellbinder from silly myths and legends of the past. Myths which revolved around warty old women using the seaweed to toss in their cauldrons, along with toad’s legs and the eyes of newts.
The abundant seaweed had been said to possess magical qualities, and the name Spellbinder Bay had stuck.
It was as good a name as any she supposed, and not nearly as awkward as a lot of English town and village names were, such as Bell End, or Shitterton. There were far worse place names in England to have your mail sent to than Spellbinder Bay, and it was probably the perfect name for attracting tourists to the town.
Millie gazed at the passing scenery. She knew that what she was doing would be considered stupid and dangerous by many people. If she’d had friends or family in Britain to speak to, she’d probably have allowed herself to be talked out of it, but here she was nonetheless — twenty minutes away from a town she’d never heard of before, with a thousand pounds she hadn’t earned tucked away in her small suitcase, along with her meagre wardrobe and the few personal keepsakes she owned.
The more Millie had thought about Henry’s visit, and the things he’d said to her, the more intrigued she’d become. She didn’t believe in the supernatural, but even she had to admit that whatever trickery Henry had used to almost convince her of its existence, had been good.
The magically appearing words on the letter had probably been written in some form of invisible ink which was activated by light when removed from the envelope. Clever.
How Henry had known she’d receive two voice messages was a mystery, but with the ever-increasing flaws in modern technology and its security, not a total impossibility.
The opening of the gate was an easier mystery to solve. Henry was stronger than he looked. It had to be that simple. Millie had known plenty of ex-miners in the village she’d lived in in Wales. Small elderly men who, to the eye, looked weak, but after decades of arduous underground work were far stronger than they appeared to be.
With hindsight, she was sure Henry hadn’t drugged her either. The reaction she’d had to the photograph, and the ease in which she’d allowed Henry into her flat must have been down to suggestive language. She’d seen celebrity illusionists like Derren Brown do it on the TV. All it took was a few trigger words and a persuasive personality.
It was the information about her that Henry had possessed which had unnerved Millie the most, and she had to find out why, and how, he’d known so much about her life.
There was something wrong with the whole situation, but Millie was as sure as she could be that she was in no danger.
To make herself feel safer, she’d contacted the Spellbinder Bay police station to let them know she was arriving. The policeman on the other end of the phone had enquired as to why Millie had felt the need to explain her impending arrival to him, but even when Millie had failed to give him a reasonable explanation, he’d still promised to fulfil the unorthodox request Millie had made of him. He would telephone her on the evening of her arrival to make sure she was safe. He probably thought she was a little mad, but that didn’t bother her.
As the train rounded the base of a forested hill, Millie caught her first glimpse of the sea, peeking through a distant valley. Her spirits lifted. She was on her way to a seaside town, and she didn’t know why. It was an adventure, and anything would be better than one more day beneath a pavement in London.
A young child smiled as he peeked through the gap in the seats in front of her, and Millie pulled her funniest face, eliciting a giggle from the child who stuck his tongue out at her in friendly retaliation.
When the child’s mother had dragged him back into his seat, citing safety concerns, of which Millie was sure the child had no concept, she pressed her head against the glass in the rattling window, and watched the scenery zoom by, wondering what life had in store for her in Spellbinder Bay.
“Millie Thorn?”
“Erm… yes, how did you know?” Millie said.
The lady looked Millie up and down. “You’re just as Henry described. Long brown hair and stout of build.”
“Stout of build?” said Millie, staring down at herself. Her thighs did seem a little wide in her tight jeans, but that was probably caused by the angle she was viewing them from.
Admittedly her bras had begun to feel a little tighter on her back since she’d spent most of her days in her London flat doing nothing and eating too many pot-noodles, but stout of build seemed to Millie like an insult which would have been used in the Victorian era. “That doesn’t sound very nice, and anyway… how did Henry know I was arriving today. I didn’t tell anybody.”
The lady waited until the train had pulled away, its roaring diesel engine echoing through the surrounding hills. “I didn’t ask him, and I don’t care. I don’t really want to be picking people up from the train station on a Monday afternoon. I’ve got far more important things to be doing than babysitting new arrivals.”
Millie bristled. “And I don’t require a babysitter,” she said. “I didn’t ask to be greeted at the station. Just tell me where I can find Henry Pinkerton, and I’ll look after myself. I don’t want to keep you from important things.”
The lady peered at Millie from b
eneath her short greying hair, and pulled her knitted floral cardigan tighter around her chest. “Just pick up your suitcase and follow me, young lady. I’m not in the mood for argie-bargy with a young upstart today. I’ve had my daily disagreement, and let me tell you… Albert Salmon won’t be calling me a nosy old bint again. Not after the flea I put in his oversized hairy ear.” She turned on the spot and scurried towards the car-park, where a lone yellow car sat beneath a beech tree. “Quickly, now. This way.”
Getting into a car with an elderly lady she’d never met was a reasonable risk to take, Millie decided. Especially after taking the major risk of leaving London behind for reasons unknown, on the request of a money gifting stranger.
She put her suitcase on the back seat as instructed, and fastened her seatbelt as the lady started the engine and pointed the little car at the narrow country lane beyond the car-park.
“Can I ask your name?” said Millie, digging her fingernails into the seat as the car veered around a blind bend. “You know mine it seems.”
The old lady squinted her eyes as sunlight flooded the car interior, and she swung the car around another tight bend. “I’m Edna Brockett, but you can call me Mrs Brockett until I deem it acceptable that you may call me by my first name.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mrs Brockett,” said Millie. “I have a feeling we’re going to get on like a house on fire.”
“Feisty and sarcastic,” said Edna, a slight smile teasing her lips. “Just how I like it.”
“Where are you taking me?” said Millie, more concerned about Mrs Brockett’s driving skills, or lack thereof, than the fact she deemed sarcasm a positive personal trait.
“To your cottage.”
Millie’s stomach flipped as the car navigated a hidden dip in the road. “My cottage? What do you mean, my cottage?”
Edna Brockett laughed. “I love that dip. I’ve had all four wheels off the road in the past. You have to hit it just right though, at over sixty miles an hour.”
Millie dug her nails deeper into the seat. “What do you mean, my cottage?” she repeated, considering whether closing her eyes would be a good idea or not. Was it better to see death arriving, or let it take you by surprise as the car you traveled in left the road and struck a tree? She decided to keep them open.
“I mean, your cottage,” said Edna. “The cottage in which you shall live. The cottage which will be your home. The cottage you own.”
“I don’t own a cottage!” squealed Millie, as the car rounded another bend at speed.
“I don’t know what Henry has or hasn’t told you, Miss Millie Thorn,” said Edna. “It’s not my job — and neither am I inclined — to begin explaining things to you. Reuben will no doubt be happy to explain a few details to you when I drop you off at the cottage. He likes the sound of his own voice, that one!”
“Reuben?” said Millie, her heart hammering as hedges close enough to touch zipped by on either side of the car. “Who’s Reuben?”
“He’s your cockatiel,” said Edna. “I’m sure you’ll become very familiar with him.” The low laugh Edna gave at the end of the last sentence gave way to the harsh squeal of brakes as the car took a lurching right turn. “There’s your home,” said Edna, pointing through the windscreen. “Windy-dune Cottage.”
Edna slowed the car to navigate the bumpy unfinished track which meandered towards the stone cottage, and Millie gazed at the turquoise sea which the lone building overlooked. “It’s…stunning,” she said.
“It’s yours,” said Edna, drawing the car to a halt and viciously lifting the handbrake. “The key is in the door. I hope you’ll appreciate it.”
Millie stared at Edna. “Did you say cockatiel?”
“A few sentences ago, you dizzy young girl,” said Edna, leaning over Millie to open the passenger door. “Now grab your suitcase and get out of my car, if you’d be so kind. Like I said — I have more important things to be doing.”
“But I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know —”
Edna fixed Millie with a hard stare. “Get out now, please. I have to be somewhere.”
Millie stood with her suitcase at her feet, watching the little yellow car as it bumped along the track, finally vanishing as it reached the narrow lane and turned right, heading downhill towards the little town which nestled at the base of green hills and steep cliffs.
She spun slowly to face the cottage, and took a deep breath of fresh salty sea air. “Wow,” she said, under her breath.
Chapter 4
With tall sweeping sand dunes behind the cottage, and smaller dunes in front, which led the eye to the golden sand of the beach below, the cottage exuded beauty. The front door faced away from the ocean, and Millie imagined the rear of the building provided a beautiful view of the sea.
The soft breeze encouraged dune grasses to perform a gentle dance, and seagulls soared on the stronger winds high above the cottage, calling out to one another. Millie was no expert on buildings throughout the eras, but she guessed the thick stone walls and slate roof meant many years had passed since it had been built.
Standing alone on the windswept and rugged seafront, the cottage commanded an outstanding view, and Millie allowed her eyes to wander. Windy-dune Cottage inhabited a finger of land which curved out into the bay, forming one half of a horseshoe. The opposite point of the horseshoe, at least a mile away, was home to another lone building — far larger than the cottage — which sat atop a tall cliff.
In the centre of the horseshoe, embraced in a sweeping hug from lush green hills and winding lanes, was the town itself. Spellbinder Bay appeared colourful, and beautiful. Brightly painted homes stood in streets which crisscrossed the sides of hills, and the section of town which Millie assumed would be where the shops and businesses were situated, crept almost all the way to the seafront, meeting a harbour which homed a vibrant collection of moored vessels.
Small fishing boats slid in and out of the harbour, and when the wind blew in her face it carried with it the screaming engine sounds of a speedboat which bounced over distant waves.
She licked her lips and tasted salt, a calmness creeping over her as she took in the numerous footpaths which led in all directions from the cottage. Some of the paths snaked downhill through the sand dunes, leading to the beach, and others disappeared into the dunes behind and above the cottage.
One path, wide enough for vehicles, led away from the cottage to the very end of the spit of land, where a lighthouse stood, painted in the standard stripes of red and white she’d become accustomed to from pictures and TV shows.
Millie picked her suitcase up and stared at the cottage. It wasn’t hers. It couldn’t be hers. Edna had been wrong. She must have been. She was there now though, and she could see a set of keys glinting in the sunlight as they hung in the red wooden door. A good omen. Red had always been her favourite colour.
No fences surrounded the cottage. It seemed the sand dunes and the ocean formed natural barriers, and Millie approached the door with a little unease bubbling in her stomach. Why was she there, and what was happening?
She knocked on the door, the sound echoing beyond, but heard no reply. Nobody came to let her in so she tested the large brass doorknob, discovering the door was unlocked. She gave it a gentle push and stepped over the threshold, placing her suitcase on the floor next to a beautiful grandfather clock.
The scent of spices greeted her nostrils, reminding her of how much she missed the baking she’d enjoyed before moving to London. Light flooded the open plan floor space, streaming through the large french-doors at the rear of the cottage, which offered a panoramic view of the ocean beyond.
A large kitchen area occupied the space near the french-doors, accessed through an arch which led from the comfortable lounge. Millie gazed upwards. There was no upstairs she realised, and two large roof windows offered more light through the slope of the roof, and no doubt a wonderful view of the stars at night.
Only one other door led off the sp
ace, tucked away to the right of the huge stone fireplace, which Millie guessed she could stand in — if she stooped just a little. A large bookcase, complete with books, lined one wall of the lounge, and the furniture appeared to be comfortable and clean.
Even though there was no evidence of a recent fire in the hearth, the cottage was warm — probably a bonus afforded by the thick stone walls. She took her jacket off, draped it over an armchair, and gazed around.
Eye catching pictures decorated walls, with consideration for their positioning, and the large television set in the corner to the left of the fireplace didn’t seem out of place in the old building. Millie stepped through the lounge area and into the kitchen. The large two door oven took pride of place — a modern piece of equipment, modelled on the old Aga design — the type of oven she’d always imagined owning one day.
In the centre of the kitchen stood a hefty oak table, and Millie smiled when she spotted the fully stocked spice rack attached to a wall. Maybe one day she’d get to use them. Maybe she could use the oven to bake some welsh cakes, or a spiced loaf! She missed baking. The little grill oven in the flat in London had barely had space inside for one scone, let alone a large batch.
A shudder of delight ran through her. The place was lovely! It was just how she’d have fitted it out if she’d decorated it herself!
Millie shook herself out of the daze the gorgeous cottage had put her in. It wasn’t hers. She had to remember that. She may even be trespassing.
She felt at home, though. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt that when she’d crossed the threshold, she’d crossed into a place which made her feel… safe.
She jumped in fright as a loud squawk broke the silence. “Who’s a pretty boy, then! Who’s a pretty boy, then!”
Millie looked around. The unmistakeable sound of a speaking bird was coming from somewhere nearby. There it was, on a small table, pushed against the wall in the lounge — the shape of a birdcage, with a black cloth draped over it. It had to be the cockatiel which Edna had spoken of.
