The warning a psychologi.., p.1
The Warning : A psychological thriller, page 1
The Warning
A J WILLS
Cherry Tree Publishing
The Warning
Copyright © A J Wills 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any other means, without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Contents
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1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
48. Chapter 48
49. Chapter 49
50. Chapter 50
51. Chapter 51
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Chapter 1
I'm trying to stay positive, but the house is nothing like I imagined. It's grey and gloomy, grovelling under a shadowy canopy of trees like something out of a Victorian Gothic novel. Its thick stone walls are mottled with centuries-old grime, the paint around the windows faded and flaking and what passes for a garden is under siege from a legion of thistles and nettles.
'So?' Justin asks, bubbling with excitement. 'What do you think?'
He cranks on the handbrake and releases his seatbelt, swivelling around so his knees angle towards me.
'It's the old gatehouse lodge.' His eyes are black and unblinking. 'Isn't it amazing?'
I bite my bottom lip as I stare out of the passenger window, trying to summon up some enthusiasm and imagine a life here. It's supposed to be a new beginning. A fresh start for us, but my gaze is drawn to the missing roof tiles, a section of guttering that needs replacing and the dirt on the windows. It's not the vision of Cornish country living I'd pictured for us when he first announced he wanted us to move here.
But I don't want to burst my husband's bubble. The last time I saw him this excited I was in labour with Sebastian.
'It's incredible,' I say, forcing a smile. 'It has so much character.'
I'd imagined some quaint stone cottage on the coast, in a chocolate-box village with fishing boats bobbing in the harbour and wide, sandy, vanilla-coloured beaches and views over big skies and dark seas. Not this, a haunting and foreboding relic surrounded by nothing more than woodland and open countryside. It's in the back end of nowhere, down a network of narrow lanes at least half an hour's drive from Falmouth and more than two miles away from the nearest village. But I daren't tell him I think it's too remote.
Justin snatches my hand out of my lap and squeezes it tightly. 'I knew you'd love it,' he says. 'Isn't it funny how your memory plays tricks on you, though? I could have sworn there were at least two chimney stacks. And I'm sure there used to be a big oak tree over there that we used to climb.' He points through the windscreen. 'The house looks smaller, too. It seemed enormous when I was a kid.'
'Maybe you're just bigger,' I suggest.
'I loved the summers here.' A wistful mist glazes his eyes. 'They seemed to last forever.'
I glance up at leaden skies and the thick black clouds chasing over the tops of the trees. The only family holiday we ever had in Cornwall had been marred by lashing rain which left us shivering in thick jumpers on the beach.
Justin used to come here every year with his family and couldn't believe his luck when he found the house was no longer a holiday home, but was being advertised for rent on a long-term tenancy. He thought it was fate drawing him back.
He'd called the agents without even talking to me, worried that any delay might mean we would lose out. He told them we'd take it without a viewing, and this is the first time I've seen it in person, and the first time Justin's been back since he was a teenager.
He's not told me much about Treloar, other than that the lodge forms part of a large country estate that's been owned for years by the Carlyon family, who still live in the big manor house further along the sweeping drive. I guess I'll have plenty of time to find out more about them now we're here.
'How old were you when you last came?' I ask.
He shrugs and pushes out his bottom lip. 'Sixteen? Seventeen? I can't remember exactly. A long time ago, but the memories are as clear as if they happened yesterday.'
'We'll build new memories,' I tell him. It's what he wants to hear.
'We will.' He squeezes my hand tighter. 'Come on, let's take a look around.' He dangles the keys we picked up earlier in front of my face. 'I can't wait to see what it's like inside. Leave the stuff in the boot,' he says, hauling himself out of the car. 'I'll bring it in later.'
We don't have much. Only a couple of cases of clothing. Pitiful for twelve years of marriage. But the fire robbed us of everything.
I follow Justin through a picket gate and along an overgrown path to a heavy wooden front door, trotting to keep up with him and his long, enthusiastic strides.
'Welcome to your new home,' he beams, slotting the key into the lock. It's one of those big cast iron keys with an ornate shamrock bow. He struggles to turn it, shifting it back and forth in its housing until it eventually catches and the door falls open.
I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose as we're assaulted by a waft of musty, damp air. The house has clearly been left shut up and empty for a long time. The first thing I'm going to do is throw open all the windows and give it a good airing.
An old coir mat lies askew in the gloomy hallway, disintegrating with age and shedding brown, wiry fibres across a cracked, terracotta tiled floor patterned with a floral mosaic. The tiles need a good sweep, but they're a beautiful original feature.
I'm about to step inside when Justin bends down and scoops me up like I'm a virginal bride. I squeal and giggle nervously as his arms shake with the effort of holding me up. It's been a long time since I've laughed at anything.
'What are you doing?' I scream.
'Carrying you over the threshold.'
He staggers through the door, my head narrowly missing the frame. He dumps me unceremoniously back on my feet, huffing and puffing.
'Silly bugger.' I punch him playfully on the arm.
He grabs his lower back and winces. 'I thought you were lighter than that.'
I cast my eyes at the floor, stung by what I'm sure he thinks is a harmless joke. I'm painfully aware that I've put on a few extra pounds in the last year. But who could blame me? For a while I had no appetite at all, but then food became a comfort. And I've not exercised for almost a year. There has seemed little point. Maybe he's right. This move can be the beginning of something new. For both of us.
'Oh, Megan, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean — '
'It's okay,' I mumble. 'It's fine.'
'I know it all feels weird at the moment, but this house is going to help us heal and find ourselves again. It's going to take time, I know that, but just look outside. There's nothing and no one for miles around, apart from trees and fields. I can't think of anywhere better we could be.'
I reach up on the tips of my toes and plant a kiss on his lips. 'I know,' I say, raking my fingers down his chest.
I hadn't quite appreciated how much this house means to Justin. The memories it holds and the place it occupies in his heart. But I can see it written across his face. I was worried when he first proposed coming here, especially as it meant moving away from the city to somewhere so quiet, but he's done it with the best intentions. For me. And for the sake of our marriage, which has been creaking under such intolerable strain. If that means embracing a new life here in Cornwall, in a strange house, removed from the familiarity of our old lives, then that's what I'm going to do. I owe Justin that.
He reaches for a light sw
'Listen, why don't you look around while I check the fuse box. I expect they've switched off the electrics while the house was empty,' he says.
He stalks off, heading for the cupboard under the stairs with the torch on his phone creating long shadows.
I leave him to it and poke my head into the kitchen, the first room off the hall. It's plenty big enough and there are loads of cupboards and a wide expanse of worktops, but it's in desperate need of modernisation. Not a patch on the kitchen in our old house with its sleek lines, crisp white surfaces, integrated appliances and eye-wateringly expensive boiling water filter tap Justin insisted we had installed when the kitchen was refitted. I loved that kitchen, but it was only wood, plastic and metal. If the last ten months have taught me anything, it's how pointless it is to be emotionally attached to stuff that has no real sentimental value.
The lounge is another room that feels stuck in the nineteen eighties, but with a large fireplace and a wood-burning stove, it's actually pretty cosy. I can imagine us curling up on the sofa with a glass of wine and the fire blazing on a cold autumnal evening.
It's a far cry from the life we used to have, but we'll get used to it. It's an opportunity to reboot. We can't remain stuck in the past forever, no matter how painful it is to move on.
A series of thuds and bangs come from the cupboard under the stairs, and Justin swears loudly.
'Everything okay?' I call out.
'Yeah, yeah, it's fine,' he shouts back.
I've learnt it's best if I don't interfere with these things. I doubt there's anything I can do to help anyway. Electrics aren't my area of expertise.
I trudge up the stairs, keen to check out the state of the bedrooms. It's supposed to be a three-bedroomed property. Too big for the two of us really, but at least we'll have the choice of rooms. I only hope the beds are half decent. I draw the line at a lumpy mattress, although beggars can't be choosers. We lost everything in the fire, so we needed a fully furnished rental until the loss adjustors approve our insurance claim. In the meantime, it means we have to put up with someone else's furnishings.
The treads creak and moan under my feet as I ascend, my heart pattering in my chest, not from the exertion of climbing, but from the niggle of anxiety that tightens in my gut. I'm not sure why.
I hesitate, listening.
Another loud thud comes from the cupboard below and Justin whelps in pain. I filter it out, cocking my head to one side.
Why do I have this unnerving feeling we're not alone?
I'm being stupid. There's no one else here. It's obvious from the dust and the smell of damp the house has been empty for months . It's just my mind's silly reaction to moving into a strange old house. I don't believe in all that nonsense about ghosts and ghouls and bumps in the night.
I climb the rest of the stairs slowly.
Come on, Megan. Get a grip.
The banister on the landing wobbles unnervingly when I grab it, and for a second I fear it's going to come away in my hand. I'll need to get Justin to look at that later. It's downright dangerous.
There are five doors off the landing. The first one I peel open reveals a small airing cupboard housing an ancient-looking hot water tank shrouded in solidified foam. The door alongside it is open and inside is a bathroom with ugly green tiles and a mould-speckled shower curtain hanging limply over a wood-panelled bath.
I assume that means the door at the far end of the landing leads to a bedroom at the front of the house, one that by rights should have the best views across the valley. It's the one I want.
The handle is stiff and creaks noisily. The door opens a crack and I'm struck by a new smell. Not the damp and mildew I detected earlier, but something more human. Sweat. The sour stench of body odour, the kind that lingers and makes you gag. And stale cigarette smoke.
I cover my nose and mouth with my hand and hold my breath as the door swings inwards achingly slowly. I swallow hard, but my throat is dry. Adrenaline races through my veins. My heart pumps faster, the tips of my fingers as cold as icicles.
I stare into the room and gasp.
'Justin!' I scream, paralysed, my feet rooted to the spot. 'You'd better get up here. You need to see this.'
Chapter 2
Justin comes bounding up the stairs like a herd of wild horses, eyes wide and face sombre with concern.
'Megan?'
I lower the hand covering my nose and mouth, and point silently into the room.
'What the hell is it?' he asks, his brow furrowed.
I press my back to the wall so he can see for himself.
His Adam's apple bobs up and down. He gasps, then runs a hand through his hair, staring open-mouthed at the grubby blue sleeping bag laid out on top of the bare mattress on the double bed and the mess littering the floor. The bottles of water. The fizzy drinks cans. An empty carton of milk that's fallen on its side. A pouch of tobacco. An old mug filled with ash and cigarette butts. There's even a pair of jeans, screwed up in a heap in the corner.
'Someone's been living here.' I wrap my arms around my body and glance towards the stairs, as if whoever's been here might reappear at any moment.
Justin steps cautiously into the room and squats to inspect the litter. He pokes at an empty can with his finger like a cat pawing at a mouse to see if it's still alive. 'It stinks in here,' he says, putting the back of his hand up to his nose.
Then he stands, his eyes roving, as if he's searching for something. 'I'll call the agency and get them to sort this out. It's unacceptable.'
'Someone's been living here, Justin,' I repeat. This isn't like finding a fuse has blown or that a curtain rail's fallen down, problems you can easily fix. Didn't the agency check the house before they gave us the keys?
'I know,' he says. He puts his hands on my arms and looks at me earnestly. 'And I said we'll get someone to sort it out.'
'How did they even get in here?'
He shakes his head. 'I don't know, but they won't be coming back. I promise.'
'You don't know that.'
I shrug his hands off and storm back down the stairs. This was a mistake. This isn't the right house for us. When Justin's gone back to work, I'm going to be left here all alone and vulnerable. And there's no one around for miles I can call on for help.
What the hell have we done?
Forty minutes later, we hear a car approaching, followed by a loud knock at the door that echoes through the house.
'Harriet Quinlivan, A1 Property Services,' the woman standing in the porch announces, thrusting out her hand. 'I'm so, so sorry. I came as quickly as I could. A bit of a problem, I hear?' Her bright red nails are immaculate. They must be acrylic. Nobody can grow nails that perfectly manicured.
Justin tentatively shakes her hand. Then she offers it to me.
Her skin is soft, her grip firm and businesslike. She smiles at me so warmly, it's annoyingly disarming. I want to hate this woman for ruining our new start, but there's something instantly appealing about her. It's not just the smile, it's her calm confidence, and the fact she's come in person, apologising profusely. It's hard to stay mad with her.
'You said on the phone that you think someone's been in the house? You found something in the bedroom?' She raises a neatly trimmed eyebrow.
'Squatters,' Justin growls. 'Don't you people check your properties before you lease them out?'
I don't like the tone he takes with her, all officious and patronising. There's no need to talk to people like that. She's come to help.
To her credit, Harriet's smile doesn't slip an inch.
'It's unforgivable,' she says. 'I really can't apologise enough. May I take a look?'
Justin grunts and steps aside to let her in.
She's a little older than me. You can see it in the creases around her eyes and the lost elasticity in the skin around her neck, but she conceals it well with her perfect make-up and highlighted honey-coloured hair that hangs fashionably just above her shoulders. In her smart business suit and high heels, she makes me feel positively dowdy.
'We've checked all the doors and windows,' I explain, 'but there are no obvious signs of how they got in.'
'Right,' Harriet says, nodding. 'I'm sure we can get to the bottom of it and make this right for you. Not the start you imagined, is it?'
