by Helen Phifer
HELEN PHIFER
What Lies Below
Copyright © 2020 Helen Phifer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems,
without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ALSO BY
HELEN PHIFER
The Ghost House
The Secrets of the Shadows
The Forgotten Cottage
The Lake House
The Girls in the Woods
The Face Behind the Mask
The Good Sisters
The Haunting on West 10th Street
Dark House
Dying Breath
Last Light
The Girl in the Grave
The Girls in the Lake
One Left Alive
In Loving Memory of Dorothy Patterson
Prologue
T he summerhouse had once been a glorious affair, built into the side of the Lakeland fell above the magnificent, now dilapidated, Lake House. Unused and unloved for decades the stone walls were crumbling, the cracked windows covered in rich, green moss, making it impossible to see through them. The slate roof sagged in the middle under the weight of the sycamore tree which had grown against it at a strange angle, the leaves on the branches covering the building in the summer, shielding it from the prying eyes of anyone who walked the fells looking for adventure. This made it the perfect hiding place for what he needed.
Brambles and knee-high weeds covered the front entrance; he used a small gap at the rear of the building, which was hidden from view, to get in and out. Animals and birds no longer nested in the eaves or took shelter in there because they sensed it was dead inside. The damp walls, earthy soil, and smell of death reeked from it on the warmest of days – a warning to any passing walker to steer clear. It wasn’t a place to take shelter from a sudden thunderstorm or the rays of the burning sun. It was a house of death, where he took the bodies of the injured or dying he found on the fells, and left them there until it was time to take them to the lake.
He’d known about this place since he’d been little; left to wander around the village and fells. Exploring every nook and cranny, The House – as the locals called it – had been his playground. The legends of the ghosts that wandered the vast corridors scared people enough to keep them far away. But he wasn’t afraid of the dead; he liked them. A lot. He wasn’t afraid of the living, either. There really wasn’t anything that got under his skin enough to scare him – except for maybe himself. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see what others did. He saw a monster, and sometimes it was hard to live with.
Stopping to take a breather, he wiped his brow with the handkerchief he kept tucked in his back pocket. The sun hadn’t risen, and the air was clammy. Picking up the ends of the sleeping bag, he began to drag it once more, the muscles in his arms screaming in protest. This one was heavy, much heavier than he’d have preferred, but he wouldn’t turn an opportunity away, and this one had been too good to be true.
While the Mountain Rescue Team had been searching one side of the fell, he’d scaled it from the other direction and found the injured walker first. Smashing him over the head repeatedly with a rock, he’d watched as the semi-conscious man had slipped away.
His fascination with the process of dying keeping him enthralled, he’d watched the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest taking shallow breaths, until it stopped completely. Then he’d had to work fast to move his body before the rescuers came and found him. He grinned. They were too late to rescue anyone this time.
It was a squeeze getting the body through the narrow gap, and he had to push and shove to make it fit. He tugged, straining so much he could feel a muscle in the side of his head begin to twitch. Then finally it was through. His breath labouring hard with the exertion, he sat on the broken chair he’d found in a skip when they’d refitted the village pub.
He was hot. Hotter than he’d ever known. Thunder was forecast and he wished it would start to rain now. He would stand on the fell in the rain and relish the huge drops of water as they fell onto his skin, cooling him down and washing away the smell of sweat and death that was clinging to him like an invisible cloak.
He looked at the sleeping bag and wondered if he should have just taken it straight to the lake; he was going to have a hard time dragging this one back down the hillside. It was always easier tugging them back down, though. Sometimes he kicked them with his boot and watched them roll. They didn’t always roll far, but sometimes they would pick up speed and he would have to run to keep up with them.
Hopefully, this one would roll all the way back down, or he was going to be too exhausted to enjoy watching it take its final journey.
Chapter One
S itting behind the fold-up camping table, which was shoe-horned into the space between the bed and the wardrobe, Madison Hart stared out of the tiny window. The lack of air circulating around the cramped box room which was now her temporary bedroom made it hard to breathe, and her armpits were damp despite showering an hour ago. At least this council estate had been given a nice name: Windermere. Only it didn’t look anything like the Windermere she’d visited once as a kid. Memories of the huge lake and the grand houses that edged the Lake District beauty spot were of a much nicer view than this.
A group of rowdy teenage boys were kicking a football at some home-made goal posts on the patchy, worn-out piece of grass below, their shouts and jeers distracting her from her work. Tearing her gaze away from them, she looked down at the blank page on the computer screen. That was a lie; it wasn’t completely blank. It had two words typed on it. Chapter One. She was learning that such a thing as second book syndrome did exist, and it was a terrifying state to be living in.
The six-month deadline had seemed like an age away three months ago, but now it didn’t. Looking down at the handwritten notes in her journal, she put her thumb in her mouth and began to bite at the corner of the nail. A loud ping alerted her to the latest email to hit her inbox, giving her a welcome excuse to click away from the offending, almost blank page.
Hey, hope you’re good. I’ve found you the perfect hideaway. You can get away from the city, like you keep talking about, and it’s as far away from that arsehole Connor that I can think of without you having to emigrate. It will also be the perfect place for you to write that damn book. I can’t wait forever to read the follow-up. I need to know what happens. Like now. Not in twelve months’ time. I’ve included the details on the attachment, along with the owner’s email. Do it now, Madison Hart. See, I used your Sunday name to get your attention. I swear to God, if I was you, I’d be on it right now. It’s perfect. Don’t hang around or someone else will snap it up. You don’t need to tell the creep where you’re going. Get your mail forwarded on to me and I can send it to you. It will be our secret.
Love always, Stella x
She read it again, hovering the mouse over the attachment, wondering if she was brave enough to even consider whatever it was that her best friend had sent her. Double-clicking, she waited for the attachment to download, sucking in her breath at the picture of the house and gardens that appeared on her screen. It was breathtaking. She glanced quickly around her room, at the magnolia coloured woodchip walls, then back at the laptop. This room would be lost a million times over inside of that house, because it was huge.
It was a bloody mansion, set in acres of lush, green countryside, and there was even a lake below it. Hadn’t she just been thinking about those grand houses by the edge of a lake? Zooming in on the picture, she sighed. She knew it
had been too good to be true. Many of the windows were boarded up, and it didn’t look as if it had been lived in for years. It was a wreck.
She blew out her cheeks, wondering if Stella had been joking. Switching back to her blank page, she continued to stare at it for a few more minutes, before opening the email once more. This time, she read the text below the photograph and felt her heart skip a beat.
The owners of Lake House are looking for a long-term house sitter to oversee renovations on the property. The position is live in and pays well, to be discussed if you meet the required criteria. The right applicant will have free rein of the house and grounds. Contact with the owners will be through email, as they live in France. The Hall is situated in Armboth Valley in the Lake District. There is a small village nearby, where supplies can be obtained. If you like your own company and are not afraid of living in the middle of the beautiful Lakeland fells, this could be the perfect opportunity.
Madison blew out her cheeks. It was more than perfect. Her stomach was doing tiny somersaults the way it did when she got excited by one of her plans.
She could get out of London, and if she couldn’t find inspiration to get this book written in that place, then she had no hope. And it was true, she wouldn’t have to worry about Connor finding out where she was. Her gran could have her spare room back, while she would get paid for strolling around the house and gardens of a mansion, pretending to be the lady of the manor. It didn’t matter if it was a bit of a wreck; she could make it cosy.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she began typing an email, then hit the send button. Standing up, she decided to go for a walk to Tesco nearby and get the ingredients to make something nice for tea. She might even splurge on a bottle of wine, because she was feeling epic. Even if the house owners weren’t interested in her, she’d taken a huge leap. It felt as if she might be on the right road to getting her crappy life back on track.
Chapter Two
S eth Taylor slid back the bolts on the heavy double doors of The Horse and Cart. Pushing them open, he stepped out onto the cobbled street. The warmth from the rays of the early morning sun felt good on his face. It was always cool inside the pub, even on the hottest of days. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he wondered if he should give today a miss; he wasn’t feeling the love.
Last night, he’d spent more time tossing and turning, trying to shut off his busy mind, than he had sleeping. The last thing he felt like doing was helping the lads out with a practice rescue off the Lakeland fells which surrounded the village. He always tried to help them prepare for practices since his ankle injury had forced him to withdraw from actively taking part himself, but he had a lot on at the moment.
The pub wasn’t doing as well as it needed to, and his dad’s latest test results were the worst they could have been. His cancer was terminal, and it was a matter of time; there was nothing that could be done. Yet the stubborn old bugger was still insisting on opening every day and working until closing. It was very noble of him, but it meant that Seth was too scared to go far in case he was needed.
As he looked around the sleepy village, a sharp tug on his trouser leg startled him. Whipping his head around, he saw Alfie standing next to him, grinning.
‘Bloody hell, Alfie, what are you doing sneaking up on people like that? One of these days someone might turn around and knock your lights out. It’s not funny.’ He gave the teenager his sternest look, which made no difference at all judging by the laughter that erupted from the youngster’s mouth.
‘Sorry, Seth. Got you good this time.’
Seth nodded. ‘Yes, you did. But I’m serious, Alfie. If you do that to Mrs Grant from the post office or my dad, you might give them a heart attack. What would you do if they were lying on the floor unable to breathe because you scared them to death?’
‘Come get you to save them. You know how to save people.’ Alfie handed him a flyer.
Seth accepted it, pushing it into his jeans pocket. He couldn’t be angry with the lad even if he wanted to. Alfie was fifteen, going on ten. Bright enough to be let out on his own to wander around, but with a childlike manner that was far too innocent. It was lucky he lived in the village and not in one of the busier towns.
He was safe here even when he was left to his own devices, which he often was. When she wasn’t drinking or reading people’s palms, his mother ran the gift shop on the main street, which sold all sorts of junk that the villagers referred to as kooky, but the tourists loved.
Alfie turned and walked off in the direction of the playground. Seth envied him; the lad’s life was pretty uncomplicated compared to his.
He went back into the pub, squinting to adjust to the darkness. The loud footsteps, vibrating on the wooden floorboards above him signalled that his dad was up and about, ready to fight another day. He sighed. If his seventy-year-old dad could cope with the crap life was throwing at him, then so could he.
Seth’s phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Maybe he should go and help set up the practice after all. His dad would soon get fed up of him acting like his babysitter, and it would be a welcome distraction. Not to mention tiring enough to make him collapse into bed tonight and sleep right through.
Chapter Three
C onnor Wood slowed his car until it was crawling along Camden High Street. The bookshop he was searching for was off one of the side streets. His knuckles clenched the steering wheel so tight they were white; he should have taken more notice the time he’d dropped Maddy off to go and see her interfering friend. But that day, the traffic had been bad, and she’d jumped out at a set of traffic lights.
Damn. He slammed the palm of one hand against the steering wheel, catching the horn which blared for no apparent reason, making him look like an idiot. Feeling the hot flush as blood rushed up his neck, making his cheeks burn, he thought he might actually combust into flames his anger was so intense. She’d made a complete fool of him. Well, she wasn’t getting away with it.
He didn’t even know what the shop was called, or her friend’s name, come to think of it. It was something like Sam, or maybe Della. Then it came to him: Stella, that was it. Stella with the huge head of ginger curls, an arse one of the Kardashians would be proud of, and the most annoying, loud cackle of a laugh that he’d ever heard in his entire life.
She was the complete opposite to Maddy. Not that he’d say no if the chance came around, because he’d sleep with anything if it was half decent. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Instead of showing Stella how angry he was about the whole situation, as he’d intended, maybe he needed to play it cool. Be nice to her, flirt with her a little. Ask her out for a drink after work, tell her he felt bad how things had ended between him and Maddy, and how he needs to talk to someone about it all. He didn’t think she was likely to be inundated with offers from blokes, and if he played her right, he might be able to get Maddy’s new address without letting her know what he really wanted it for.
A car behind him sounded its horn. Connor glared in his rear-view mirror at the elderly woman and continued driving. If he had to spend the next three hours hunting for Stella’s bookshop, he would. His pride wouldn’t let this one go without a fight.
Turning off at the next junction, he pulled into a loading bay and took out his phone. Maddy had had the cheek to block him on Facebook, but she hadn’t blocked him on Messenger. He began typing another message to go with the other two hundred unread messages that he’d sent to her.
His blood was boiling that she’d walked out on him when it was his brother’s wedding in three weeks. She’d promised faithfully that she’d go with him, and he’d bragged about how much in love he was with the new publishing sensation, best-selling writer Madeleine Hart. How they were head over heels with each other, and he couldn’t wait to introduce her to his family. In truth, he despised his family, and hadn’t thought he’d ever feel so angry and bitter about anyone as he did about them. But then he’d come home from work and found that she’d gone. Packed
her bags and left him.
Well, it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t having it. When he’d finished breaking her fingers, one by one, she’d be lucky if she’d ever be able to use them to type another word again.
If he’d carried on driving along the high street, instead of turning off, he’d have seen the woman who was causing him so much frustration. Maddy had come out of Tesco and decided to pay Stella a visit, turning the corner into the narrow side street and walking towards the quirky bookshop halfway along. She stepped through the door of the shop, just as Connor lifted his head from his phone and began to drive off towards the opposite end of the high street, ready to start his search from the beginning again.
Chapter Four
S tella was serving the guy with the black ponytail who came in every Thursday at 15:15 without fail. The overpowering smell of fried onions clung to his clothes, and always made her want a hot dog with the full works. Stella had a bet with Aden that the guy either worked in a greasy spoon or was unfortunate enough to live above one. He was a nice bloke, though, bought a book each time he came in, and never left empty-handed. He was an excellent customer, and right now Stella would put up with him coming in smelling of anything.
Aden liked to tease her that onion guy fancied her, but she hoped to God that he didn’t. She might not have much going on in the love department at the minute, but he wasn’t her type at all. Not unless he got rid of the long hair and asked the fire department to hose him down and make him smell a lot better than he usually did.
She took the book from him and stared down at the title: Serial Killers of the Eighties.
‘Oh, you like this kind of stuff then?’
His cheeks flushed and he stammered, ‘Well, yes and no. I’m fascinated with them, but I don’t actually like them. It’s more of a morbid interest. It’s not like I agree with them, or anything like that.’