Tara kept still for several long moments. She kept waiting for the spectre to return. When it didn’t, she slowly crawled to her knees and lifted herself onto unsteady feet.
I need to get out of this room. The mobiles aren’t here. I don’t know how much time I have, but the keys need to be back on the hook when May comes inside.
She hesitated, though. The ghost had touched the book on the writing desk. Was it trying to show me something? Uneasiness made her skin prickle as she approached the book, feeling more wary than curious.
The leather cover was blank, but the shape—wider than it was tall—told her it was a photo album. Wearing around the edges and corners suggested it was frequently opened. Tara pulled the cover back. Inside were dozens of greyscale photos, arranged neatly, with small cursive writing under each picture. The Folcroft family at the lake, Summer 1933. Harry works the garden, 1928. Christopher, age four, helps Eileen bake a pie.
Tara stopped at a familiar face. The girl from the lake stared up at her balefully, a white cloth with a tree design held towards the camera. Anna Folcroft learns embroidery.
She turned the page. A large photo took up so much space that the names had to be squeezed into the bottom margin. It was a family portrait, with two adults and five children arranged in various sitting and standing poses. Harry, Eileen, Anna, Peter, Christopher, and May Folcroft.
Tara’s mouth dried. The picture was all wrong. The faces were familiar—the man, Harry, had stood in the garden that morning, and Eileen’s face was a younger version of the ghost that had shown Tara the book. But the names didn’t match the gravestones hidden behind the house.
May cares about family deeply—but the path to the graves is never used. Is it possible Petra and George aren’t relatives? Do we have strangers’ graves on this land?
Another anomaly hit her as she looked at the last child, May Folcroft. Her hair hung in ringlets around her head as she clutched a doll to her chest. But May married into the family. How could she be in this picture?
Confusion and growing dread rose through Tara. She took a step back from the book, hands pressed to her forehead. The door behind her creaked as it opened, and Tara gasped.
“And here you are.” A heavy sadness weighted down May’s voice. “It would have been better if you’d stayed away, my dear.”
Tara couldn’t speak. She could only stare in horror as May closed the door with a sharp snap. The woman crossed to the book, moving so close to Tara that she could smell the cinnamon scent that seemed to hang around her. May’s long fingers touched the photo reverently then closed the book.
“You have probably realised I am not Peter’s wife. I am his sister. And Christine is not our child.”
Tara’s throat was too dry to swallow. She backed away from May until she hit the wall. “I don’t understand.”
May braced her hands on the table. She looked tired. A breeze fluttered the curtains around her, hiding her face for brief moments. When she spoke, it was with thick resignation. “There is nothing more important to us than family. Things are different now, but back when I was young, it was expected that women would marry and move in with their new husband. The idea always repulsed me. Why would I commit my life to a stranger when I had everything I needed at home? I trusted my family. I relied on them, and they on me. We had a harmony that no suitor could hope to rival.”
She paused to breathe. Tara stayed pressed against the wall, afraid to move or speak in case it provoked some form of retaliation. But when May finally looked at her, it was with a smile.
“During the war, our family withdrew from society. We barely went into town. Most people didn’t even know our names. Over several decades, our parents and siblings died—by drowning, illness, and old age. Eventually, only Peter and I remained. We were happy together. He took care of the garden, I managed the house, and our parents had left enough savings that we would never need jobs.
“One day, a family arrived at our house. A young man, his wife, and their baby. They were hiding because of some very bad things they’d done during the war.” May’s fingers traced over the book’s leather cover. “I told them government officials were coming. I said I would look after their baby while they hid in the bunker.”
“Oh… no…” Sickness and horror churned in Tara’s stomach.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. They didn’t suffer. They probably didn’t even realise they were suffocating.” May’s smile was shaky, bordering on desperate. “We gave them good, respectful burials. Peter carved the gravestones: one each for George Kendall and Petra Kendall.”
Kendall. Our surname. A morbid fascination was growing through Tara’s fear. This must be what Mum found out on the day she ran away, when she wrote about secrets in her journal. She adopted her birth parents’ surname.
May took a short, shallow breath. “We renamed their baby Christine. It had been so long since anyone in town had seen us that they naturally assumed we were a married couple when we took our daughter to the doctor. That suited us. People used to say our family was strange for being so close. But no one questions a married couple growing old together. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
Her laughter made shivers creep up Tara’s spine.
“We’re not bad people, Tara,” May said as her chuckles died. “We only led those strangers to the bunker because it was the right thing to do. They were sick. Not physically, but in their minds; it was like a rot that would grow worse and worse every day. We did it to save your mother. We did it for Christine.”
You’re lying. Tara bit her tongue to keep the words inside. She no longer had any doubt that Peter had tampered with Chris’s car brakes. She was starting to understand how obsessed May was with family… and how far she would go to have one.
“You understand, don’t you, my dear?” May’s long fingers brushed hair away from Tara’s face. They felt strangely cold. “We did it for the best. And we loved Christine—just like we love you and Kyle. We’ll take care of you. We’ll cherish you.”
When Tara didn’t speak, May pulled her close, pressing Tara’s head into the space below her chin. “I know this is a shock, my darling. But I know you’ll understand when you think it through a bit. You’re not like your mother; she was stubborn and wilful. She didn’t understand the type of family we are. But you do, I’m sure. You know what’s best for you and your brother.”
From where May held her, Tara could see the garden. Kyle and Peter still worked in it. Kyle sent a terrified glance towards the house.
“You don’t want anything bad to happen to him.” May’s breath tickled the top of Tara’s head as she whispered into her hair. The fingers kept moving, running up and down Tara’s shoulder and refusing to let her pull away. “You don’t want him to be hurt. You’ll be a good girl, won’t you?”
Fear turned Tara’s stomach cold. The smell of cinnamon surrounded her. She could barely breathe, but when she did, she said, “Yes.”
“Yes,” May echoed, and Tara felt the woman smile against her hair. “You are a good girl. So different to Chris. You’re not going to break your grandmother’s heart.”
Kyle looked back towards the house, his face sheet white and perspiration dripping off his forehead.
“Good girl,” May cooed, her fingers tightening on Tara’s arms. “Now, my dear, you have a headache, don’t you? You’d better take that lie-down.”
May eased her away from the photo album and into the hallway. Tara wanted to push out of her arms and reject the repulsive embrace, but she couldn’t. Not as long as they had Kyle.
“Sleep as long as you like.” May finally released Tara when they were inside her room. She was smiling, but the expression didn’t touch her eyes. “Don’t worry about coming down for dinner. I’ll bring it to you.”
She pulled the key ring from Tara’s pocket and shut the door. There was silence for a beat, then the lock clicked.
Tara covered her mouth. A high-pitched ringing noise filled her skull as terrified tears ran ove
r her cheeks.
22
Waiting Games
Tara paced the room, running her hands over her face and through her hair as she raced to piece together a plan.
As long as Kyle and I can get to town, we should be safe. But the drive was long, and the trip would be longer by foot. They either needed transport or a head start at a time when they wouldn’t be missed for hours.
They’re not going to leave us alone for hours, though. May is smarter than I anticipated if she saw through the gardening diversion. So that means we need a car.
She didn’t have a license, but her mother had let her try driving the car around an abandoned parking lot one night. She thought she could handle the Jeep as far as the town. But actually getting the Jeep wouldn’t be easy. The key was on the key ring, and she suspected the metal band wouldn’t be left out of eyesight any time soon.
And even if I had a way to get the keys—even if we had a chance to make a run for it—I can’t do anything until I’m out of this room. How long will she keep me here? Just tonight? A few days? And when I’m let out, how long will it take to gain enough trust to be left unsupervised, or to even talk to Kyle in private?
Tara gritted her teeth against a moan as she keeled onto the bed. There was too much risk. If she tried to make a break for it and was caught, she dreaded what they would do to Kyle. May had her bunker. Peter had his rifle. And they had both killed—or attempted to kill—before.
The overcast sky turned the light filtering into her room grey. Tara rolled off the bed and approached the window. She tried the latch. The frame wouldn’t budge—it was either frozen from age, or intentionally locked. The panes were big, though. Tara thought she could break the glass and crawl through.
Movement outside pulled her eyes to the yard. Peter’s tall frame moved slowly and smoothly, circling the house. He tilted his head to glance at Tara’s window as he passed, and the weak sunlight glinted off the rifle cocked over his elbow.
Tara shrank back from the window as nausea built up inside of her again. They weren’t going to tolerate any form of resistance. She hoped Kyle was smart enough not to confront them. If either of those monsters hurt him, I’ll kill them.
She squeezed her clammy hands into fists. Her powerlessness was like a prickling thorn in her chest, and every second she sat made it worse.
Don’t be rash. Don’t make things worse.
Peter wouldn’t stay awake forever. Once the house was fully silent, she could escape and get Kyle, and they would make a break for it. She imagined running down the driveway in the middle of the night, tripping over the potholes and swiping at scratching branches, praying all the way that headlights wouldn’t appear behind them.
The prickling thorn felt worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands over the lids to block out all traces of sunlight. Instead of thinking about the escape, she tried to focus on their life afterwards.
They would be able to go home. Kyle would have his vast library, and the computer would restore the friendships Tara was desperately missing. They would have their own beds again. The chewy honey cereal Kyle loved. The fishbowl with Nemo, their calico goldfish.
Except we can’t go back there. May and Peter know where we live. They have to—that’s how they tampered with Mum’s car. Which means we’ll need to go on the run. Change our names. Move far enough away that we can’t be found and cut off all of our friendships.
But at least we’ll be able to see Mum again… assuming she’s still alive.
The thorn hurt so badly that she wanted to scream. She leapt up and attacked her pillow, pummelling it with both fists as whispered cries leaked out between her clenched teeth. When her arms were so tired that the punches stopped being satisfying, Tara collapsed onto the bed and rolled over so that she no longer faced the window. She knew she would need to stay up through the night, so she tried to sleep. It was a hopeless cause when her anxiety was wound up so high and the frustrated thorn continued to prickle.
Day slowly collapsed. As the sunset painted violent red colours across the angry clouds, footsteps approached her door. Tara sat up as May entered, carrying a tray. “Hello, my dear. I hope you’re feeling better. I brought you your dinner.”
I could kill her. The thought came out of nowhere but didn’t retreat. She’s old. She’s frail. I could smash her head between the door and its frame. I could press my pillow over her face and keep it there as she gasps. I could wrap my bed sheets around her neck and cinch them tight. And then I’d be a murderer… just like she is.
May placed the tray on the bedside table. If she had any idea of the thoughts running through Tara’s head, she didn’t show it. Instead, she caressed hair away from Tara’s face. “This has been a very stressful time for you. But things will get better. I promise. We’re taking good care of Kyle.” She sighed. The creases on her face looked deeper and greyer than normal, and even though she smiled, it was a pained expression. “Excuse me, my dear. It’s been a long day; I might go to bed early, too. Sleep well.”
The door clicked closed. Tara released the sheets from her grip and looked towards the tray. She had been given stew, warm bread, a cup of tea, fresh salad, apple cubes, and even a slice of cake. There was enough to feed three of her. She didn’t touch any of it.
Tara sat up in bed, waiting, as the last crimson stains bled out of the sky. She didn’t turn her light on. If she was lucky, May and Peter would think she’d fallen asleep. She kept as still as she could, hands holding onto the brightly coloured quilt, and listened to the building.
Voices came from downstairs, their words warped and jumbled until they were indistinguishable. Footsteps moved through the house. A pipe rattled as someone washed their hands or brushed their teeth in the bathroom down the hall. Tara hoped it was Kyle. He would be terrified. If May had given him an excuse for Tara’s absence, she knew he wouldn’t believe it.
The footsteps left the bathroom and approached her door. Then Peter’s voice said, “Time for bed.” The footsteps stopped, turned, and retreated to the room two doors away from her. Peter followed. Tara barely made out the sound of a lock clicking as Kyle’s door was secured. Then silence returned to the house when Peter went back downstairs.
She waited while the night animals woke up and started screeching in the woods behind her. Peter looped around the house twice in the following hour; his footsteps were stealthy but still loud enough to hear. Sometime around midnight, a door closed downstairs.
Tara kept waiting, nerves keeping her alert despite the progressing hours. She was cold but kept still, not wanting to make any noises until the Folcroft family was fully asleep.
When her alarm clock said it was half past two, she finally stood and pulled a heavy jacket over her shivering limbs. She was aware of how much noise every motion made. The rustle of her jacket, the subtle groan of floorboards under her feet, even her breathing seemed unnaturally loud. She went to the window.
Breaking the glass would make too much noise. Tara braced her foot against the wardrobe and leveraged her body weight and her muscles against the frame. It groaned, then the wood cracked, and it burst open.
Tara caught herself on the sill. She held her position there, breathing shallowly, as she waited to see if anyone had heard. Minutes ticked by. The house remained quiet.
The moon was large and bright enough to let her see, even with the cloud cover dimming it. Tara examined the house wall. The window to her right was less than ten feet away. A narrow ledge of protruding stones ran along the wall, marking the point where the first floor ended and the second began. Tara squeezed her lips together and swung her leg through the open window.
She hadn’t expected how difficult it would be to reach a foot onto the ledge without falling off the sill. For one awful second, she thought she was trapped with one leg still inside the room and the rest of her body out, but then she heaved herself through the opening. Her toes touched the stone protrusion. She eased her weight onto it until her arms were only
holding the windowsill for balance.
Why did my hobby have to be blogs? Why couldn’t it have been rock climbing or jujitsu?
The ground looked dizzyingly far below. A fall from the second floor probably wouldn’t kill her, but she doubted she could escape it without broken bones. She focussed her attention on the window ten feet away and began shuffling along the ledge.
The protrusion was only large enough for her toes to rest on. It wasn’t too bad while she could brace herself on the window, but as she edged farther along the ledge, balancing became difficult. She pressed her body as close to the wall as possible, keeping her stomach pulled in and her breaths shallow as her spread fingers ran along the rough stone surface.
Don’t stop. Don’t look down.
Her calves cramped. It was becoming harder and harder to press herself into the wall. Her fingers scrambled ineffectively, hunting for any sort of hold she could dig her nails into.
Left foot moves out. Shift your weight. Right foot pulls in.
The windowsill was only a couple of feet away. Her initial plan had been to pass it and keep moving to Kyle’s room, but she was starting to realise her legs wouldn’t carry her. She would have to stop in the locked room—even if for just a couple of minutes.
Her outstretched hand found the sill. She grabbed it, thankful for something to occupy her fingers with, and shuffled closer. In her eagerness, she moved too quickly. Her left foot plunged off the ledge. Tara didn’t even have time to take a breath as she fell. Her side hit the windowsill, and she clutched at it.
She came to a stop with one foot still straining to hold her on the ledge, and her upper body clinging to the sill. Her heart thundered in her ears. She didn’t know if she’d screamed, or if she had, how loud it had been.
Slowly and carefully, Tara pulled herself onto the ledge. She was surprised and relieved to find the window was open a crack. Their hinges groaned as the panes turned, but then she was able to climb over the sill and collapse inside the room.
The Folcroft Ghosts Page 12