To expose the truth she’ll trade the only thing she has left…
Read an excerpt of Charlotte’s journey in From The Ashes book 3 in the Ashes to Ashes series.
A sharp pain jabbed at my neck as I blinked myself awake and lifted my head. I rubbed at the tight muscles. My fingers were freezing. Why was I so cold? Rough wood at my back and beneath my thighs. Trees rustling above me. Where the hell was I? A bench. I sat on a bench. Blades of damp grass beneath my bare feet. And I was wearing only my sleep tank-top and shorts and a flimsy cotton robe.
Rubbing my hands together, I tried to shake off the fatigue. My eyes felt grainy and dry.
How on earth had I ended up asleep on a bench in the middle of— I looked around. Lawn, trees, flowerbeds. Was I still on the grounds of Blaxon Hall? Yes. I could see the structure dark against the pale dawn. Dawn! I’d slept all night upright on a bench behind the Hall not far from the woodlands—a place that creeped me out even in daylight.
Why? How? Had I been dreaming?
There was something… Images flashed through my thoughts. It was like seeing something out of the corner of my eye, a flash of colour, a movement, but when I looked closer there was nothing and I couldn’t be certain I hadn’t imagined it.
I had to push past the fatigue and the fear of those missing hours and think.
A flash of memory. A cottage on the edge of the woods, the door hanging open and a soft yellow glow from within. It was so like a fairytale that at first I dismissed it. Just something conjured from those Brothers Grimm tales I’d been reading Lia for the last week or so. Then I recalled the feel of wooden floorboards under my feet and the jolt of trepidation as they creaked. I looked around me. No cottage in sight. Plenty of trees. Maybe I had walked through the woods.
Nope. No way. Not on my own in the dark. Not after the terror I’d felt in Epping Forrest.
I took a steadying breath and closed my eyes. If I couldn’t catch hold of the images maybe I’d do better by remembering the sensations—the timber beneath my feet, the creaking floorboards, the trepidation…
The more I tried to remember the dimmer the memory became.
I pushed myself off the bench, intent on making it back to the Hall before anyone was around to see me, but as soon as I stood my head swam. I felt dizzy. Disoriented. It felt just like a hangover after a big night out except that I hadn’t had anything stronger than tea or coffee for weeks. I clutched at the bench back for support. The rough texture of the timber reminded me of tree bark…
Another memory. My hands reaching for rough bark… Trees. Suddenly the images came sharp and bright. Stumbling through the undergrowth… Clutching at tree trunks… Dizzy. Disoriented. Afraid.
It might have been a flashback to my mad flight through Epping Forrest, but on that night all those months ago I hadn’t been dizzy. I’d been hyperalert, my ears filled with the sound of feet thudding behind me and voices carrying through the night. This memory was different. It felt more… desperate. Yes, that was it. Desperate. Like I’d been trying to get somewhere but couldn’t make myself move.
Oh, come on, woman. Get a grip. Anyone would be dizzy and weak after a night spent sleeping on a bench.
And if I stayed much longer one of the staff would notice, which would lead to a whole lot of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. Questions I wasn’t sure I could answer. I relaxed my grip on the bench, sucked air deep into my lungs, and held it for the count of five before exhaling. Three more breaths like that and I felt more myself and well able to slip back to the Hall and the safety of my room.
I’d gone barely three steps when I sensed it, like something brushing against my neck. A tingle shot down my spine and anchored me to the spot. And then I heard it—murmuring in the woods behind me. Yasmine’s ghost story rose up in my mind. Oh, for god’s sake, it was just a story. I did not believe in ghosts. Sure, there were things going on at the Hall that I couldn’t so far explain, but none were otherworldly.
And yet… Birds that had twittered softly while I’d tried to recall what happened last night were suddenly silent. Once more a shiver teased my neck, murmuring drifted my way. It was probably just a brook. They were called ‘babbling’ for a reason, and there was a creek or brook somewhere on the property, I’d seen it mentioned on the Hall’s website. Maybe they really did sound like two people having a whispered conversation.
Though it took every nerve I possessed not to run away, I turned to face the trees. The woodland was dark, cold, unwelcoming, and the early light was too weak to infiltrate the dense canopy. Was I really going to walk in there with nothing more than my wits and a cotton wrap for security? A gust rustled the leaves. An engine thrummed somewhere far in the distance. The sibilant hiss of whispers became a distinct voice.
Got to stop… too much… any longer.
I pushed aside the fall of branches from a willow and despite every muscle telling me to get the hell out of there I stepped into the woodland’s cool gloom. The sound seemed to shift with the wind and once I was amongst the trees it became impossible to pinpoint. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe that babbling stream was somewhere close dancing over rocks and creating the illusion of murmured conversation.
Maybe I imagined it entirely.
…I think.
Then don’t.
No. There it was again. Voices. A conversation.
I moved deeper into the trees. From the edge of the woodland the fat trunks and undergrowth had looked like a black hole full of danger and menace, but once inside I felt exposed. The undergrowth wasn’t that dense. And there was far too much space between those fat trunks. Whoever was in here was still hidden from view. My heart thudded. The sound filled my ears as I realised just how vulnerable I was.
Then I saw a flash of white against the dank gloom. I dashed after it, catching glimpses as I crashed through the undergrowth and wove around the fat oaks and spindly birch. Animals scurried away. Something furry leapt up at me. I swerved, briefly losing sight of the white until it appeared again far to my left. In the brief pause while I gathered myself, I heard it again. The murmuring. And a distinct word: Ashe.
Where they really talking about me? Was it all my imagination? Was I becoming paranoid?
With my gaze locked on the patch of white among the trees, I bent lower and slowed my approach. There was no point alerting whoever it was to my presence—assuming I hadn’t already done so. As I crept toward it, the murmuring stopped. I froze. My ears were attuned to every sound: the rustle of leaves high above, the buzz of insects, the flutter of bird wing, the trill and chirp of a blue tit. All around me was the cloying scent of honeysuckle.
There they were again. The voices. Over to my right and moving away.
How was that possible? I’d distinctly seen the flash of white ahead of me. There was no way they could have moved that fast without me seeing… something. I changed direction and stole toward the sound. The closer I got the louder the murmuring became. From my right. Then my left. Louder and louder until it seemed to come from every direction.
It was all in my head. My mind was playing tricks. This was just a dream. A nightmare. But as hard as I tried to convince myself, I could not prevent the fear from taking hold. I covered my ears. Oh god, make it stop. Make it stop!
I turned and fled back through the woodlands towards the safety of the Hall.
About Rowena Holloway
I consider myself a reformed academic who discovered fiction writing was preferable to the real world. My love of suspense fiction is thoroughly indulged through writing novels and short stories about Fractured Families and Killer Secrets. My novels have been nominated for the Ned Kelly Award and semi-finaled in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, and my short stories have been included in several anthologies including the Anthology of Award Winning Australian Writing. I also review my favourite books, interview fellow writers, and blog about books and writing.
- the links to various sites in this article are purely for your convenience. I do am not affilliated with any businesses and do not generate income when you click a link.
Each of the books in the Ashes to Ashes series can be read as a stand-alone suspense thriller. Bad Things Happen (book #1) is Joey Baptiste’s story; Less You Know (book #2) is Allie Brown’s story. If you like the sound of my Ashes to Ashes series the eBooks can be found on Amazon, Kobo and elswhere. My print books are available everywhere. Just ask you friendly bookstore owner.