I went over to the window. Chesney had vanished, and Julia and Lily were playing together on the lawn, running through the sprinklers, laughing as the water soaked them. They collapsed into a heap on the grass and Julia threw her arms around her daughter, pulling her close.
I had a feeling there was something Lily wasn’t telling us, as if part of her story was missing. But when I said this to Julia she told me not to be stupid. Why would Lily lie? I had no answer to that, but there was something niggling at me.
Now, in Julia’s embrace, Lily looked over her shoulder so I could see her face. She wore that expression, the one I caught occasionally when Julia wasn’t looking. The smile she wore for her mum slipped away and her brow would furrow, eyes darkening.
I guessed she was remembering her time in that room beneath the basement. She would recover, I was sure, but sometimes her expression frightened me.
Sometimes, like now, she looked murderous.
Epilogue
It was the last day of summer. Tomorrow, Lily would have to go back to school and guests would start arriving at the retreat. Right now, Mum and her new boyfriend Lucas were still in bed, enjoying their last lie-in. Mum would never have let Lily come down to the river on her own. She wouldn’t let her go anywhere. And that was fine. Lily didn’t want to go anywhere.
But she had unfinished business.
Walking down to the riverbank, she’d thought about Lucas. He seemed all right. He wasn’t her dad, but at least he seemed to make Mum happy and they never argued, not seriously anyway. Sometimes, at night, she’d hear them laughing together. Maybe, Lily hoped, he would ask Mum to marry him and Lily could be a bridesmaid. That would be pretty cool. Just as long as he didn’t expect her to call him Dad. She already had a dad.
And every time she thought about her father and why he was dead, she felt as if there were a flame inside her that filled her entire body. She tried to hide it from Mum and was sure she had succeeded. But the flame drew the moths: the black moths that came to her in the night, each one representing a dark thought. They landed inside her head and clung there, dozens of them, hundreds. A whole swarm of bad thoughts that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard she tried.
She wondered if this was how Rhiannon, the woman who became the Red Widow, had felt after her husband died. If that was what made her put the curse on the town.
Revenge. That’s what the bad thoughts were about.
Revenge for Dad’s death. And for the two years she’d spent locked in that room.
She reached the river. It had rained all night and the water was grey and high and choppy, rushing around the bend like it was late for an important date.
Lily pictured Dad drowning in that water and was forced to look back – and there she was, threading her way through the bushes towards her.
‘Hi, Megan,’ Lily said.
Megan looked nervous, just as she had yesterday. Lily had sneaked through the woods and emerged by Megan’s house, hiding and hoping to catch a glimpse of her former best friend. She got lucky. A bus pulled in at the end of the road and Megan got off. She gasped when Lily stepped out of the trees and said hello.
‘I want to talk to you,’ Lily had said. ‘Meet me tomorrow at nine in the morning, okay? Down by the river. I’ve got something to tell you. Something important.’
Lily knew Megan would come. She was a curious girl. And sure enough, she did. Lily watched her walk across the field, dragging her feet slightly.
‘How are you?’ Lily asked when Megan reached her. ‘How’s Jake?’
‘He’s fine. Not happy about going back to school but, like, who is?’
Lily didn’t blame Jake for what had happened. He’d simply been following instructions.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Lily said. ‘Even though I’ve missed, like, nearly three years and am going to be bottom of the class.’
She walked closer to the river, Megan following after a pause.
‘I’m . . .’ Megan started, before swallowing her words. Finally, she spat it out. ‘I’m sorry. I was just . . . I was scared. I really thought the Widow was real. I was a kid, a silly, scared kid. And when they said you’d gone missing, I was convinced. The witch really had got you.’
Lily stared at the water, letting Megan ramble on.
‘I felt so guilty, though, especially after— especially after what happened to your dad. I used to watch your house, wishing you were still there. Jake wanted to tell, to confess, but I knew they’d send him to prison. I thought they’d send me to prison too. I was terrified.’ She tried to meet Lily’s eye. ‘I didn’t want it to be you, but there was no one else . . . You were the only other kid who didn’t live in town, who we could . . .’ She trailed off.
‘It’s okay,’ Lily said. ‘It all worked out fine in the end.’
Megan stared in that annoying way of hers. Some things never changed.
‘You really mean that?’
Lily nodded.
‘Is that why . . . ?’ Megan’s voice dropped to a whisper and she looked around, as if someone might be lurking in the trees, listening. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell anyone what really happened? Why you didn’t tell them about me and Jake?’
‘That’s right.’ The black moths fluttered their wings, ready to take off, to bash and batter the inside of her skull. ‘I don’t want Jake to go to prison either. And you’re too young. You wouldn’t be punished.’
Confusion flitted across Megan’s face, but Lily smiled. ‘You’re still my best friend.’
Megan couldn’t hide her relief. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes, Lily, to make it up to you.’
Lily had one more question. ‘Does your grandad know what happened?’
Megan looked pained. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve seen him looking at me sometimes, like he’s wondering about something. But he’s never said anything. And he never will.’
Lily nodded, satisfied, then turned away, still smiling, and said, ‘What was that?’
‘Huh?’
Lily pointed towards the far bank and moved closer to the river. ‘Down in the water, over there. I saw something shining.’
Megan stepped closer to the edge of the riverbank. ‘What? Really? I can’t see anything.’
Lily pointed towards the far bank. ‘Over there. Look.’
Megan stepped closer still to the edge, leaning forward with one hand cupped over her eyes. ‘I still can’t see it. Are you sure?’
Lily moved behind her former best friend.
‘You should be careful what you believe,’ she said. And pushed.
She watched Megan thrash in the water for a minute, watched the strong current pull her under, just as it had done to Dad. Megan came to the surface, mouth opening, flapping soundlessly, but only for a moment. The river claimed her.
Glancing around to check no one had seen, Lily headed home, smiling quietly to herself. No one would ever know it wasn’t an accident. She rubbed her scalp.
The moths were quiet at last.
Letter from the author
Dear Reader
Thank you so much for reading The Retreat. I love hearing from readers and you can email me at
[email protected], find me on facebook.com/markedwardsbooks or follow me on Twitter: @mredwards. I’ve also joined Instagram (@markedwardsauthor) because the world desperately needs more photos of books, cats and dogs . . .
Please note, the rest of this letter contains massive spoilers, so PLEASE don’t read it until you’ve finished the book.
The initial spark for The Retreat came from a newspaper article I read a few years ago. A family had been driven out of their home by somebody who believed the house rightfully belonged to them. This led to an idea: a house that was haunted, not by a ghost but by a living person.
I combined this idea with an image that came to me from nowhere: a family, out walking by the river on a winter’s day; the parents rounding the corner to discover their daughter missing, and a soft toy being carried away by the churning water.
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But what had happened to this girl? And who was haunting the house? It took a while to figure this out.
I have always been fascinated by urban legends and folk tales, by the stories people tell each other. Shortly before starting The Retreat I watched a fascinating documentary called Beware the Slenderman, about a horrifying case in which two young girls attempted to murder their best friend because an Internet meme told them to. At the same time, my YouTube-addicted son began to ask questions about the Slenderman and my daughter came home from school talking about Bloody Mary.
It struck me that this was what my novel was about: the scary stories we tell each other about ‘boogeymen’, stories that spread much faster and wider now we have the Internet . . . And it’s not only children who believe scary tales. In this world of post-truth politics and ‘fake news’, it’s more important than ever that we think very carefully about what, and who, we believe.
Finally, if you enjoyed this book I hope you will recommend it to a friend. Maybe pass it on to someone who doesn’t usually read much. There are few things I like better than receiving a message from a reader whose love of books has been sparked or rekindled by one of my novels. The more people we can turn on to the joy of reading, the better the world will be.
Best wishes
Mark Edwards
www.markedwardsauthor.com
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the usual suspects, the team of people who are always there for me and help me get my books into the hands of readers:
Emilie, Sana, Hatty, Eoin, Laura, Shona and everyone else at Thomas & Mercer for being fabulous publishers and knowing what authors need (a quick reply to emails and lots of alcohol);
My brilliantly astute agent, Sam Copeland, whose enthusiasm for this book was infectious;
My ridiculously clever and gorgeous wife, Sara, for supporting me in every way and being my first and most critical reader (in a nice way).
A number of people helped specifically with this book. As one of the world’s least organised people, I apologise in advance to anyone I’ve missed out:
Ian Pindar, my editor, for countless wise suggestions and for making the editing of this book seem almost unbelievably straightforward;
The real Heledd Roberts, who not only let me use her name but provided the creepy Welsh song and helped me name the town of Beddmawr, along with Suzanna Salter and Jackie Davies;
All the other members of my Facebook page who volunteered to have characters named after them: Malcolm Jones and Olly Jones (who are not related in real life!), Karen Holden, Ursula Clarke, Garry Snaith and Suzi Hastings. Also, Lily Jenkinson for helping come up with the name of the cat, Chesney, and Julie Baugh for helping me christen some of my other characters;
Everyone else on my Facebook page, Twitter and Instagram for your endless enthusiasm and cheerleading;
My daughters, Ellie and Poppy, for showing such interest in your dad’s book, even though you’re not allowed to read it yet, and for advising me on words the kids of today would and would not use. I promise not to say ‘LOL’ or ‘true dat’ ever again;
Lisa Shakespeare and Rachel Kennedy at Midas PR for helping to spread the word about my books – though I’m still waiting for a feature about Rebel and me in Your Dog magazine;
Heather Large and Lisa Williams at the Express & Star for all your support;
And finally, my mum – who engendered my love of books and who, unwittingly, started me on this path many years ago by bringing home that James Herbert novel. Thank you not just for that but for all your encouragement and support. I still need to buy you that bungalow . . .
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About the Author
Photo © 2016 Tim Sturgess
Mark Edwards writes psychological thrillers in which scary things happen to ordinary people, and is inspired by writers such as Stephen King, Ira Levin, Ruth Rendell and Linwood Barclay.
He is the author of three #1 bestsellers: Follow You Home (a finalist in the Goodreads Choice Awards 2015), The Magpies and Because She Loves Me, along with What You Wish For and six novels co-written with Louise Voss. All of his books are inspired by real-life experiences.
Originally from the south coast of England, Mark now lives in the West Midlands with his wife, their three children and a ginger cat.
Mark loves hearing from readers and can be contacted via his website, www.markedwardsauthor.com.
Mark Edwards, The Retreat
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