The Ghosts of Merry Hall, page 45
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
1: Dolly
2: Nell
3: Dolly
4: Nell
5: Dolly
6: Nell
7: Dolly
8: Nell
9: Dolly
10: Nell
11: Dolly
12: Dolly
13: Nell
14: Dolly
15: Nell
16: Dolly
17: Nell
18: Dolly
19: Nell
20: Dolly
21: Nell
22: Dolly
23: Nell
24: Dolly
25: Nell
26: Dolly
27: Nell
28: Dolly
29: Nell
30: Dolly
31: Nell
32: Dolly
33: Nell
34: Dolly
35: Nell
36: Dolly
37: Nell
38: Dolly
39: Nell
40: Dolly
41: Dolly
42: Dolly
43: Nell
44: Dolly
45: Nell
46: Dolly
47: Dolly
48: Nell
49: Dolly
50: Nell
51: Dolly
52: Dolly
53: Nell
54: Dolly
55: Nell
56: Dolly
57: Nell
58: Dolly
59: Nell
60: Dolly
61: Nell
62: Dolly
63: Nell
64: Dolly
65: Nell
66: Dolly
67: Nell
68: Dolly
69: Nell
70: Dolly
71: Nell
72: Dolly
73: Nell
74: Dolly
75: Dolly
76: Dolly
77: Nell
78: Dolly
79: Nell
80: Dolly
81: Nell
82: Dolly
83: Nell
84: Dolly
85: Nell
86: Dolly
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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The Ghosts of Merry Hall
Print edition ISBN: 9781835413111
E-book edition ISBN: 9781835413128
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: September 2025
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 Heather Davey.
Heather Davey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, 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 subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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A fire broke out at Merry Hall on Saturday afternoon. Home of artist Jared Raine, it was built in 1840 by showman and entrepreneur Abel Wenham. Local farmer Tom Russell noticed flames coming from the property. ‘It was pretty scary,’ Russell said, ‘but I called the fire brigade and they came within minutes. The guys did a fantastic job even if they couldn’t save the building.’ The cause of the fire is unknown and, although damage is extensive, police have confirmed that no one was hurt. Human remains were discovered on the site and a survey is now underway.
Bodwick Recorder,
January 27, 2025
DOLLY
November 2024
An intense stillness hangs over Merry Hall. It is so thick that it touches everything. The birds do not sing here, the bordering trees dare not whisper, woodland animals find other places to forage.
There is just dust and silence. Collecting, mouldering, waiting.
Until now.
Now, the stillness breaks.
A man walks down the mulchy drive towards the house, hands deep in the pockets of an oilskin jacket, hair ruffled, cheeks reddened by the winds that have relentlessly torn through November. I watch him from inside the building and press my hand against a dirty windowpane.
He stops for a moment and I think perhaps he has seen me. But he is just riffling through his pocket, locating the key, drawing it out and fitting it in the keyhole.
I move from the window as the lock snaps back. The door is stiff with age, swollen after the tireless rain. The man leans his whole weight against it, shouldering it open so that at last it shudders across the tiles. He enters, stamping his boots, ignoring the dead leaves that swirl in ahead of him and scatter over the chequered floor. His boots are caked with mud, and he leaves dark footprints as he circles the hall, touching the walls, brushing the layers of dust and probing the pitted wainscot.
He pauses as a snatch of light hits the floor, cutting the room in two. A weary sun has emerged from behind a cloud. It is gone almost immediately, and he is left in the gloom. He coughs and it echoes around the empty space. His gaze swings upwards and takes in the peeling wallpaper, the cracks, the blossoming damp.
The place will need some work, he knows that. I see his thoughts clearly. They are like erratic bursts of colour. He will hire some people, get the place in order. Then, duty fulfilled, he will sell, wash his hands of it, buy a new property as far away as possible. He hates to admit it, but the house unsettles him. It reminds him of the sense he gets when he stares at portraits in galleries and the eyes seemingly follow his movements, combing his thoughts, making him edgy. He is afraid, he realises, although he stamps on the thought at once. Irrational fear is not a part of who he is. He likes to think he is no coward.
The man scans the drab hall.
My hand has left a print on the windowpane. Distinct and delicate, like an ice flower. He sees it and frowns, but then he is taking measurements, each room in turn, scribbling numbers in a notebook. His fingers are pinched with cold and he stops writing to blow on them. The warmth of his breath catches my cheek and I desperately savour the living energy before it dissipates.
I follow him. I need to know everything about him.
What he will do next.
What it might mean for me.
I need to know whether I can use him.
Because I recognise him.
I know exactly who he is.
NELL
January 2025
I sat on the edge of the single bed nursing a mug of weak tea, curtains open just enough to see the glow from the streetlights. There was no moon. A strip of murky orange streaked the room, highlighting the floral wallpaper, the threadbare carpet and the jumble of Fern’s clothes strewn across the floor. Somewhere down the street I heard the early rubbish lorry rumbling, the bins rolling and slamming, the hiss of brakes. Workers called to one another. Stark headlights beamed. As the lorry passed by the house the condensation on the inside of the window sparkled like a hundred fireflies, and I watched as the water dribbled and pooled on the windowsill.
Hunching into a musty-smelling blanket, I tried to breathe. Low and deep, like my yoga instructor back in London had insisted. I was trying to find my centre before the day began. But it was no good. Even as the central heating clunked to life, I was far too cold and tense to concentrate.
It was early January and bitter. Moving here just before Christmas had been difficult enough, but in the minus temperatures, traipsing upstairs with our belongings, cramming our lives into someone else’s spare room because it was all I could afford, then trying to make the place feel like home had been impossible. Adam had offered to help, of course, beyond maintenance for Fern. But I wasn’t going to take his money. Not after he’d replaced me with her. And Fern was so furious with her dad that she hadn’t even suggested I ask for more. In fact, fury was Fern’s default state these days; fury with her dad, with me, with the entire universe. I glanced at her. She was curled, foetal-position, in her narrow bed, muttering in her sleep, moaning occasionally. I sighed, hugging my tea to my chest as I turned back to the window. I guessed she just wanted her old life back and was lashing out at anything and everything because she felt so helpless, and it was all she had.
Outside, the night sky gave way to the deepest blue and the stars retreated. A car door slammed. A dog barked.
‘Mum!’
I wheeled around, sloshing tea on my pyjamas.
Fern was sitting up in bed, her long dyed hair falling in tangles around her face. ‘Mum, I had the dream again. About the man. About the pale sad girl crying.’
My stomach clenched. How long was this going to continue? How much more could we both take? I’d hoped we’d left all that behind. The dreams that had begun at the tail end of last year when things really started to fall apart with Adam.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I tried, desperate to keep the fear and exhaustion out of my voice. I laid my tea on the windowsill and slipped across to Fern’s bed. The ridiculously soft mattress dipped as I sat. I reached out and swept the hair from her face. Beads of sweat ran down her cheeks and her skin was icy cold. When she had the dream, Fern always needed me. ‘It’s fine, love. You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.’
Fern gave a trembling sigh and leant across to the bedside table to switch on the lamp. The room immediately felt warmer. I smoothed the duvet cover. ‘Shall I make you a coffee?’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Fern propped the pillows behind her back and let her head rest against the wall. She was wearing an oversized hoodie in bed because it was so cold, and the sleeves were pulled over her hands so that only the tips of her chewed nails showed. The hoodie belonged to her ex-boyfriend back in London; occasionally I’d still catch the whiff of Lynx and weed in the soft material. But Fern wouldn’t let me wash it – she was still smarting from the decision she and her boyfriend had made to split when we’d moved. The hoodie was a relic. Maybe just as well. We were only allowed to use the washing machine twice a week. A dark wash and a light wash. Because of the energy bills. Our landlady, Carol, was quite firm on that point.
‘Back in a mo.’ I slipped out of the bedroom and onto the dark landing. The place reeked of dog wee and disinfectant. I crept down the stairs, eager not to disturb Carol, wincing as the boards creaked beneath my feet.
Pushing open the kitchen door, I startled Pickles, Carol’s dog. I immediately made a frantic hushing noise. Pickles, a straggly, over-enthusiastic terrier, liked to tear around people in circles with a nippy yap, leaving frequent puddles on the floor. He raced towards me with a joyous bark, tangling himself between my legs and snapping at my ankles. I tried my best to quieten him, sure he’d wake Carol. But all remained silent.
I flicked a switch and the stark strip light spluttered overhead. Then I turned on the kettle and grabbed two mismatched mugs from the cupboard.
While the kettle boiled, I moved about to keep warm. Even with the heating on, the house – an end Victorian terrace, poorly insulated with virtually no money spent on it – remained stubbornly cold. Carol didn’t seem to notice, but after our well-heated London house we shuddered our way through the mornings and evenings, making endless hot drinks to try and get comfortable.
As I spooned out cheap coffee granules, there were footsteps from behind and I turned to see Fern standing in the doorway, shivering and barefooted. The hoodie reached almost to her knees. Immediately, Pickles sped towards her, jumping up at her legs and barking. Fern scowled and pushed him away.
‘I thought I’d get up and have breakfast,’ she said.
‘Big day today. New school.’ I smiled.
Fern said nothing. She was deathly white, and grey moons hung beneath her eyes. Ignoring Pickles’ demand for attention, she headed towards the ancient fridge and yanked open the door. A pungent aroma escaped – overripe cheese and garlic. The light inside flickered.
‘It’s off.’ Fern brandished a milk bottle at me accusingly. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Smells rank.’
I felt the familiar sense of failure grip me. But then I reasoned: it was only a bottle of milk. The fridge barely worked. The milk had gone off. No big problem.
But apparently it was. Fern’s defences were back up.
‘What am I supposed to have for breakfast?’ Fern tipped cottage-cheese textured lumps into the sink. ‘This place is such a dump.’
I muttered something about toast or the box of cereal bars on the sideboard. I swung open one of the cupboard doors. ‘Or there’s this UHT goat’s milk. I’m sure Carol wouldn’t mind.’
Fern pulled a face. ‘Gross. Goat’s milk tastes of goat.’
I sighed. ‘Look, why don’t you get ready and I’ll sort breakfast?’
Minutes later, I was heading back upstairs with a tray. Two mugs of black coffee and a plate of toast spread with supermarket budget-range jam. I carried my newly washed blouse from Carol’s pulley airer under my arm, stepping carefully over Pickles, who was now chewing at a rag rug on the landing.
In our room, Fern had pulled her inky hair into a messy bun and was sitting stiff in her new uniform, the neat creases from where it had been folded in the packets still evident.
‘So, we’ll leave plenty of time,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what the traffic will be like.’ I mentally traced the network of roads that criss-crossed town. ‘I’ll drop you at school, then head to the interview.’
Interview.
My breath came in snatches. First interview in years, a pretence at enthusiasm, a pretence that I could hold it all together and do the job. I had to get it. I just had to get something and make all this work. I didn’t want to have to crawl back to Adam and admit that we – that I – couldn’t do this on my own.
Fern said nothing. She swallowed the last bit of toast and brushed the crumbs from her skirt.
‘It’s going to be okay, you know,’ I said. ‘You’re going to be okay. There’s nothing wrong with you.’ I stared at my daughter meaningfully, trying to catch her eye.
But Fern wouldn’t look at me. ‘It was just a stupid dream,’ she said at last. She slumped, her chest caving. ‘Can we forget about it? It doesn’t mean anything.’
I wanted to reach out and touch her, bring her close, like I used to when she was little. But, at sixteen, Fern’s reactions were unpredictable. So, instead of the physical assurance I longed to give, I settled for a quiet nod and silence.
While she hogged the tiny mirror in the bedroom, painting thick black lines across her eyelids and piling on far too much foundation, I rushed around, trying to get my documents together for the interview. Reaching for my blouse, slung across the armchair where I’d abandoned it, I tripped over Fern’s school bag and sent a spray of coffee into the air. Blooms of dark brown spread over the blouse.
Shit. I snatched the blouse and dashed to the tiny sink in the corner of the room. I ran the cranky tap and held the stained patch under the stuttering water. It was the one smart blouse I’d brought with me. My London wardrobe consisted mainly of designer gym kit, figure-hugging evening wear and posh tweed. None of it was me. I needed to go shopping. Buy some—
‘It won’t work. Dad says you should soak tea and coffee stains in vinegar. You’ll make it worse rubbing it like that.’ Fern watched critically. ‘Dad says you—’
‘I don’t care!’ I scrubbed at the blouse fiercely. ‘Dad isn’t here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ I sounded like a teenager. I sounded like Fern. And the water was making the mark worse. So, Adam was right. Always bloody right. I’d have to wear the stupid thing tucked in, hide the dirty stain somehow.
Fern came up close. She smelt of her vanilla body spray and peach lip gloss. ‘Mum, why don’t you—’
‘Fern, stop it! Just stop it. I’ve got this, okay?’
She backed away, hands held out defensively. ‘Yeah, looks like it. Everything completely in control, as always. I was only trying to help, you know.’
I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat. Why was I reacting like this? Why? When Fern was already so fragile. ‘I’m sorry,’ I breathed. ‘Look, I—’
‘Forget it.’ Fern was cramming a book into her bag. It was an old rucksack, one strap tied to the body with string. I cursed myself. Why hadn’t I thought to at least buy a new school bag?
‘Do you have a pen?’ said Fern. ‘I need something to write with.’
I gazed helplessly around the room, sopping blouse tail dripping onto the carpet. There was a make-up bag overflowing with crusty foundation and lumpy mascara, a pile of magazines that had been there when we’d arrived, half a bottle of red, Fern’s brush caught with bluey-black hairs. But no pen. Not even a pencil.
