How I Found You (2 page)

Night Visitors

July 27
th

WATCHING THE BUS LUMBER AWAY
down the deserted road gave me a strange sense of foreboding. It wasn’t as though I was overly fond of the bus—far from it!—but I was sorry to see it leave.

I dropped my suitcase onto the hot pavement and sat on the kerb beside it, leaning against the rusted
Welcome to Millwood
signpost.

The sleepy town of Millwood. My summer home. My aunt and uncle’s home, to be more precise.

For as long as I could remember, I’d spent every summer in Millwood. My aunt Mary was my father’s sister, and she and her husband, Roger Clements, and their one-year-old son, Zack, lived in a peaceful old manor house set in acres of private forest.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my trips to Millwood, but I could think of other places I’d rather have been. Namely, in my own home with my own parents, especially considering that the rest of my year was spent at boarding school—which was a drag, to say the least. But my parents were both photographers and they went wherever the work took them, which often meant away from me. This time it was Africa. I wasn’t complaining, though; like I said, I loved Millwood. And I loved my aunt and uncle.

I closed my eyes and tilted my face towards the sky, letting the late-afternoon sun warm my skin. With a deep breath, I inhaled the fresh air and pleasant scent of pine. I’d been raised and schooled in metropolitan cities, so the countryside always felt like luxury to me. I savoured the brief opportunity to unwind after my tedious bus ride. 

Just the thought of it made me yawn.

Although, I must admit, the bus journey wasn’t the sole culprit for my lethargy. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately. And it was becoming more apparent than ever that the sleepless nights were taking their toll on me. It wasn’t that I
couldn’t
sleep; it was more that I didn’t
want
to. It seemed a little childish to be afraid of nightmares, especially at sixteen, but anyone who could laugh off a nightmare clearly wasn’t having the one that I was having.

Uck. It made my stomach knot.

The strident honk of a car horn blasted through the tranquillity.

I jumped at the noise and banged my head on the signpost.

A few metres down the road a powder-blue minivan pulled up onto the kerb. I knew the driver—a cheery woman in her early forties with a round face, broad smile and fluffy, strawberry-blonde hair.

My aunt, Mary.

She waved frantically whilst clambering out of the car.

“Rose!” she exclaimed, hurrying along the pavement towards me.

“Hi, Mary!” I bounced up and greeted her with a hug. “It’s so good to see you!” Sometimes when people say that, they’re just being polite, but I meant it.

“You, too! You look so beautiful!” Mary took off her oversized sunglasses and gave me a thorough inspection.

I blushed. Beautiful was such a strong word. What made a person beautiful, anyway?

I saw Mary as beautiful. Agreed, she wasn’t the stereotypical supermodel or the glamorous Hollywood-type. But I loved her, so she was beautiful to me.

As for myself, I was just
me
. I’d hardly have described myself as extrovert, and my dress was always downplayed; that day I was wearing jeans and a casual purple top. My eyes were dark green and my hair was mousey brown. I supposed that, to most people, I probably looked like any other teenage girl, but not to my aunt. She insisted that I was ‘unique’.

I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it didn’t particularly bother me either way. What bothered me was her saying it in public! The woman was unstoppable! That was Mary, though. She was affectionate, too—especially towards me. She once told me that she thought of me as a daughter, and I quite liked that. Actually, the feeling was reciprocated, though I’d never said it out loud; it seemed too cruel towards my real mother. But I was pretty sure Mary knew.

She gave me another squeeze. “How was your trip?”

“Okay. I had the same driver as last year.”

Mary snapped her fingers in recognition. “Mr Show-Tunes! What did he play on the stereo this time?” 

“The soundtrack to
Cats
.” I raised a cynical eyebrow.

“Six hours, on repeat.” The lyrics were still playing on a loop in my mind. It was quite traumatic, actually.

“Ooh, I wonder what you’ll get next year.” Mary’s eyes lit up. “Fingers crossed for
Mamma Mia
.”

She chuckled warmly at my dubious expression.

“Come, come,” Mary bustled me over to the minivan. “Come and see Zack. He’s a lot bigger than when you last saw him.”

I peeked into the back of the car. Baby Zack, with his wispy blonde hair and tiny dungarees, sat contentedly in his top-of-the-range car seat.

Mary fussed over him for a while, showing me each and every one of his rattles and accessories. After several Zack-related anecdotes, she threw her hands in the air. “Listen to me,
yap
,
yap
,
yap
!” she chortled. “I’ll bet you’re desperate to get back to the house and put your feet up.”

Yes.
“No, I’m fine,” I said aloud, brushing off the remark, “whenever you’re ready.”

“Oh honey, you don’t have to be polite for my benefit!”

That was one of my favourite things about Mary—she knew me scarily well.

I smiled.

“Let’s get you home,” Mary said, grinning.

Of course, ‘home’
wasn’t technically
my
home, but it was as good as.

With one last effort, I hauled my suitcase into the back of the minivan and climbed into the front passenger seat. Mary did a final Zack-check before getting behind the wheel.

As soon as we were belted in, she started the engine and steered the car out onto the main road. We drove along for quite a while, talking comfortably and gazing out at the scenic chain of trees. It wasn’t until ten minutes into the journey that Mary slowed down and pulled out onto a smaller access road—the Clements’ private road. The journey suddenly became noticeably bumpier and narrower—so narrow, in fact, that the branches of the evergreens brushed up against the windows on either side of the car.

I tried to peer through the trees into the depths of the forest. Somehow it seemed darker than usual, even with the blush of daylight creeping through the branches. I looked up at the evergreens as we passed each one by. They held themselves staunchly, like soldiers standing in a ceremony to welcome me home.

After a minute or two, the narrow road opened onto a gravel driveway and Mary rolled to a stop.

There was the manor.

I couldn’t count the number of times I’d seen that house, but it always took my breath away. It was like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel—grand and gothic, and still bearing most of its original features.

My uncle Roger stood at the door, waving just as Mary had done earlier. In my opinion, he looked like the classic archetype for Lord of the Manor: smartly dressed with rectangular glasses and greyish hair parted to the side.

I hopped out of the car and crossed the driveway to greet him, while Mary busied herself untangling Zack from his car seat.   

“Hello, dear!” Roger gave me a slightly awkward hug. “You look well. New haircut? It’s lovely.”

I smiled to myself.
Nope, it’s exactly the same haircut as last year.
Long and a little wavy… I wasn’t one for change. But I had to hand it to Roger—the poor man had learned the hard way about the repercussions of not noticing Mary’s haircuts.

I decided to throw him a bone. “Thanks!” I said, shaking out my hair.

Roger’s chest puffed out with pride for his successful observation skills. “Yes, it’s very
you
,” he elaborated.

“Oh, that’s kind of you to say.” 

“I’ll fetch your suitcase,” Roger offered.

“No, don’t worry, I can get it.” I trotted back to the minivan and heaved the suitcase from the boot. It dropped heavily to the gravel, missing my foot by a fraction of a centimetre
.

The suitcase had wheels, but sometimes they were more like a burden than an aid. I opted to drag it across the gravel.

Roger took this to mean that I was struggling. He rushed across the yard to my rescue.

I relinquished my grip on the handle and made my way into the house.

Once inside, the memories of previous years came flooding back to me. The smell of trees and vanilla filled the air; it triggered a wonderful sense of
home
. I couldn’t imagine a more stunning place to live. Even the hallway was elegant, with a tall wooden coat rack and varnished oak flooring.

I eyed the wide staircase in front of me. “Can I still have my usual room?” My gaze travelled up the stairs.

Mary appeared behind me, carrying Zack in one arm. “Yes, the attic room is all made up for you. Now, are you sure you don’t want to try one of the guest bedrooms on the main floor this year?”

I shook my head adamantly. “No, I love my room.”

“I have no idea why,” Mary chuckled. “It’s so small. It’s a shoebox compared to the rest of the house.”

I laughed. “You’d be surprised. It’s like a Tardis when you actually get inside it.”

“It’s your special room, isn’t it, Rose?” Roger joined in with a good-natured grin. “Old faithful. This girl doesn’t like change.”

Well said, Roger
, I thought.
The man knows his stuff.

“I’m too set in my ways to learn how to get to any of the other rooms,” I added in jest.

“Dear me,” Roger teased, “it would be a terrible hassle to move you now. However would you cope!” He lugged the suitcase to the foot of the stairs. “I’ll take your bag up and then you can get settled.”

“It’s okay, I can manage,” I said, taking the handle from Roger and hoisting it up into the air.

The main staircase was fitted with wine-red carpet, and running alongside it was an extravagant, cast iron banister complete with an authentic oak handrail. As I lugged the case upstairs, I could guarantee that my aunt and uncle were wincing every time it crudely bashed against the banister. Oops.

The top of the staircase opened out into a long corridor leading off to seven bedrooms and an enormous family bathroom. To the far right was a second stairway—a smaller one, as though it had been added as an afterthought. I heaved the case to the smaller flight of stairs—my personal staircase—and shuffled upwards. At the tenth step there was an arched, wooden door. I gave it a little nudge and it swung open.

My room.

I sighed gratefully at the sight of it. It was uncomplicated: a neat, rectangular attic with a sloping ceiling and only enough space for the bare essentials. It took a few seconds to reacquaint myself with the layout. At the back of the room stood a low-set single bed with a pine headboard and coffee-coloured bedding. The rest of the furniture was spread out simply: a pine chest of drawers was standing opposite the bed, with a matching pine wardrobe and dressing table at the window.

The window
. I smiled. Possibly the best feature of the entire room—the entire
house
,
even. It was a long, lead-framed hatch overlooking the grounds from a bird’s eye view—the kind of view that made its occupants feel as though they were sitting high up in the tree tops.

Dropping the suitcase on the floor, I flopped down onto my bed and nestled into the soft pillows. With a deep breath, I indulged in the scent of cherry blossoms wafting from the freshly washed linen. I rolled onto my side and gazed over at the dressing table, mentally assessing how I could use the space.

The table top itself was relatively bare, with only a vanity mirror and a toffee-coloured candle. That dusty candle had sat in the same spot for years, awaiting an opportunity to be lit. I suspected that opportunity may never come. Not from me, anyhow. I was nervous of fire. My mother would have labelled it an irrational fear, but I would hardly call it irrational. Um, hello? It was
fire
, for crying out loud! Fears don’t get more rational than fire! Anyway, because of my debatable fear, I didn’t actually light candles, but I enjoyed looking at them. They were my version of art.