Prologue
“The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.”
- Edgar Allan Poe
Selene Clarke’s reflection looked even more frightened than she felt. Every tremor in her chin, every shallow movement of her chest, every nervous flex of her fingers appeared beneath the hard white bulbs surrounding the glass. A bead of sweat slipped from her hairline and traced the side of her face, threatening the foundation one of the assistants had spent twenty minutes perfecting. Selene caught it with the back of her hand. Behind her, the temporary changing area churned with movement. Clothes rails squeaked across the concrete floor. Hangers clattered. Someone swore after catching a heel in the hem of a dress. Assistants hurried between half-dressed models with pins held between their lips, while the muffled beat of the music on the other side of the curtain travelled through the partition wall and into Selene’s stomach. The air was too warm. It smelled of perfume, hot fabric, hairspray and the sour edge of twenty nervous bodies. Selene drew a slow breath through her nose.
“You can do this.”
The words barely reached her own ears. Her hands stopped shaking by the third repetition. Not entirely, but enough. She pushed herself up from the chair and stepped out of the dress pooled around her ankles. An assistant appeared almost immediately, snatched it away and thrust the final outfit into her arms. The wine-red dress looked simple on the hanger. Once Selene pulled it over her head, the fabric settled around her as though it had been made for her body. It hugged her waist before loosening beneath the hips, falling almost to the floor in soft layers that shifted from crimson to near black wherever the light failed to touch them. She turned sideways before the mirror. A piece of lint clung to her ribs. She picked it away, then found another near her thigh.
“Selene, that looks absolutely wonderful.”
Susan stood behind her, studying the dress with undisguised admiration. Her own outfit was green and considerably less forgiving, with narrow straps and a skirt that ended high above the knee. Dark curls framed her face, pinned loosely enough to look effortless, although Selene had watched two stylists spend nearly an hour arranging them.
“You think so?” Selene asked.
“I hate you a little for how well it suits you, so yes.”
The joke loosened something in Selene’s chest.
“That means a great deal. Thank you.”
Roger Stone appeared between two clothing rails, holding Selene’s discarded leather jacket over one arm. He had been pacing so much that the collar of his shirt had darkened with sweat. He was her agent during working hours and her uncle whenever either of them needed advice and honesty. Tonight, the two roles had become impossible to separate. His gaze travelled over the dress, and his worried expression softened.
“Susan’s right. You look incredible.”
“You have to say that.”
“No, I have to tell you not to trip, smile at the judges and avoid insulting anyone important. Admiration costs extra.”
Selene gave him a weak smile. Roger touched her shoulder.
“You’re going to make it, Sel.”
A burst of applause rose beyond the curtain. Selene glanced towards the narrow steps leading to the catwalk. The model before her would be turning at the end of the runway now. There would be perhaps twenty seconds before the announcement. Twenty seconds before Selene either walked into the future she had imagined since childhood or gave three strangers a reason to forget her name. Her mouth went dry. Roger must have seen the change in her face.
“Don’t look at them as judges,” he said quietly.
“What should I look at them as?”
“Furniture.”
Susan snorted.
“Expensive furniture,” Roger added. “The sort no one is allowed to sit on.”
A crackle came through the speakers.
“Selene Clarke.”
There it was. Her name. No more time. Selene filled her lungs with the thick backstage air, closed her eyes and summoned the expression photographers had praised since she was five. It was not false, exactly. She had been genuinely happy the first time someone called her beautiful. She had simply learned how to recreate that happiness on command. When her eyes opened, the frightened girl in the mirror had disappeared. In her place stood Selene Clarke. Model. Professional. Future star, if the evening worked out as she hoped. She crossed the narrow space and climbed the three carpeted steps to the stage. Her fingertips travelled along the blue-painted railing, more for balance than elegance, though no one watching would know the difference. Heat struck first. The spotlights washed the catwalk in white glare, blinding her as she emerged from behind the curtain. Beyond them waited a dark room crowded with silhouettes, raised phones and indistinct faces. Music rolled through the hall, each bass note pulsing beneath her feet. Selene did not hesitate. She stepped onto the runway. The dress moved with her. Its red folds spilled across the white platform like wine poured over marble, gathering around her ankles before gliding after each measured stride. She held her shoulders loose, chin level, gaze fixed beyond the audience rather than upon them. She had learned that when she was eight. Never search the crowd for approval. Approval had to search for her. The jury sat at the far end beneath three smaller lights. Two women and one man. Talent scouts whose names opened doors across Scotland and far beyond it. Selene knew their reputations, their clients and the careers they had ended with a few words spoken over champagne. The woman on the left leaned towards the other. Selene could not hear what she said. The man followed Selene’s approach without looking down at his notes. Good. Or terrible. It was hard to tell. Near the side of the runway, several of the older models had stopped talking. One folded her arms. Another whispered something behind her hand. Selene kept walking. At the end of the platform, she planted one foot, turned and let the fabric fan around her. The movement sent the red layers circling her calves, catching the light in flashes of scarlet and orange. With her red hair loosened around her shoulders, the effect was almost of flames rising around her. The audience responded with a low murmur. Selene completed a second turn, slower this time. Then she put on her trademark. A smile that makes men’s hearts melt and twists women’s faces with envy. The man’s pen stopped moving. That was enough. She pivoted and walked back along the runway, every step controlled despite the weakness spreading through her knees. She crossed the curtain before allowing her posture to collapse. Roger caught her elbow.
“Chair.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
He steered her towards the dressing table. Selene sat heavily, careful not to crease the dress, and let her head drop back against the wall. Her coach appeared with a bottle of water cold enough to be misted with condensation.
“Here. You’ve thoroughly earned this.”
Selene took it with both hands and pressed it against her cheek. The chill stung pleasantly.
“Thank you.”
She twisted off the cap and drank too quickly, swallowing until the bottle crumpled beneath her fingers.
“Slow down,” Roger warned.
She lowered it, breathless.
“Too late, I guess.”
That had been her fifth and final appearance. Nothing remained except waiting, which Selene had always found harder than performing. She changed out of the dress and into the clothes she had brought from home: dark blue jeans, black ankle boots, a pale top and her black leather jacket. The familiar weight of the jacket helped her feel like herself again rather than a body other people had spent the afternoon evaluating. One by one, the remaining models stepped onto the runway. Selene watched through a gap in the curtain. Mary Moore worried her the most. She was eighteen and had been flown up from England specifically for the casting, a fact she had mentioned often enough that no one backstage could have forgotten it. She wore a blue gown whose pale centre brightened towards the neckline, giving the impression of sunlight breaking over deep water. Mary’s hair was red too. Darker than Selene’s, styled in smooth waves that never seemed to fall out of place. She was beautiful. Denying it would have been childish. She was also cruel in ways that were difficult to prove. Mary rarely insulted anyone directly. She waited until they left, then dissected their clothes, their weight, their accents or whatever private insecurity they had been foolish enough to reveal. Selene had once watched her comfort a crying girl after a poor rehearsal, then imitate the girl’s sobbing the instant the toilet door closed behind her. When Mary grew angry, the politeness left her eyes before it left her voice. Selene had noticed that too.
“Stop staring at her,” Roger murmured.
“I’m studying the competition.”
“You’re frightening yourself.”
“She’s good.”
“So are you.”
“You’re my uncle. You have to encourage me.”
“I am also your agent. I am paid enough to be honest.”
Selene looked at him.
“Mum pays you in Sunday dinners.”
“Your mother’s roast potatoes are worth more than money.”
A small laugh escaped her. Her mother had started modelling before Selene was born and had remained successful well into her thirties. She and Selene’s father were halfway through a two-week trip to America, partly for work and partly because neither of them had taken a proper holiday in years. They would not return for another three days. Selene had imagined telling them she had won. Her mother would scream of joy. Her father would pretend to complain that international success meant fewer family dinners, then tell everyone who his daughter is. There was too much at stake for it to be called merely a casting. Twenty girls had been invited, all between sixteen and twenty. One would receive the contract. One would travel, work with established designers and step onto catwalks Selene had only seen in magazines or on television. The others would go home with compliments, photographs and the knowledge that someone else had been chosen. Half an hour after the final model disappeared behind the curtain, an assistant called them back. They lined up across the catwalk under lights that now felt colder. Roger stood near the side of the stage. He held both thumbs crossed so firmly that the tips had gone pale. Selene almost smiled. At the jury table, the woman on the left lifted a sheet of paper.
“You have all shown considerable talent today. Unfortunately, as you know, only one of you can receive the contract.”
A few girls shifted beside Selene.
“I will begin by reading the names of the seventeen applicants who have not been selected. I wish each of you the best of luck in the future. Do not allow this disappointment to discourage you.”
The words sounded polished from repetition. Selene doubted the woman would remember most of them by morning. The first name was read. A blonde girl at the far end lowered her head and walked towards the stairs. Then another. And another. Every name brought relief followed immediately by guilt, then renewed terror that Selene’s would come next. Her fingers curled into her palms. She forced them loose before her nails could leave marks.
“Selene,” the woman announced.
Cold passed through her body.
“Taylor.”
A girl two places away made a broken sound. She covered her mouth and hurried from the runway, tears already streaking her make-up. Selene stared after her. Too close. She had not even known there was another Selene among them. Names continued to fall. By the time the seventeenth girl left the stage, only Selene, Susan and Mary remained. Susan reached across the space between them and brushed the back of Selene’s hand with two fingers. A tiny gesture. Enough to remind her that she was not standing there alone. The man on the jury rose.
“Ladies, the three of you have performed exceptionally well. Whatever happens next, you should be proud of reaching this point.”
He sounded as though he meant it. The woman passed him the paper. He read it once, then looked at each of them in turn. His gaze settled on Selene.
“Selene Clarke.”
The disappointment was immediate and absolute. It struck before she could think. Her mother’s career. The travelling. The designers. Every future she had allowed herself to picture folded inward and vanished. Selene summoned a smile because cameras were still raised and because losing gracefully was part of the profession. She dipped her head and turned towards the steps.
“Congratulations.”
She stopped. The word reached her without meaning. Selene looked back.
“What?”
Her voice was scarcely there. The man smiled.
“You’ve done it.”
He jumped onto the stage with ease, the contract held in both hands. Selene stared at the document. Her name appeared across the top in clean black print. SELENE CLARKE. The hall blurred around it.
“I won?”
The man laughed.
“You won!”
Her professional composure disintegrated. She threw her arms around him.
“Thank you. Thank you so much!”
He stiffened in surprise before laughing again and returning the embrace with one arm. The two women applauded. Roger’s cheer rose above everyone else’s. Susan hugged Selene as soon as the man released her.
“I told you that dress was marvellous.”
“I’m sorry,” Selene whispered.
“Don’t be. Just remember me when you’re famous.”
Selene pulled back, blinking through tears.
Mary remained where she was. She did not cry. She did not offer a smile. She merely watched Selene with an expression so still that it drew the warmth from the moment. If looks could kill, Selene thought. She turned away and hurried towards Roger. He met her at the steps, gathered her into his arms and lifted her far enough that her boots left the floor.
“I’m so proud of you!”
“Mum’s going to lose her mind.”
“I bet your father will put this victory in his next book.”
Roger took the contract out of her hands before Selene could crush it. She moved her fingers a lot when she was nervous or excited. He slid the pages carefully into a thick envelope and handed it back.
“Hold it by the edges.”
Selene laughed through the wetness on her face.
“I’m not five.”
“Last Christmas you tore a cheque opening the envelope.”
She hugged him again.
“Thank you. Really.”
The words came out quieter. Roger understood what she meant. He had driven her to castings, argued with agencies, sat through rehearsals and talked her out of quitting on the days when photographers made her feel too short, too young, too round-faced or simply not enough. He kissed the top of her head.
“You earned it.”
The other models filed out gradually. Some congratulated her. Some avoided her eyes. The judges asked Selene to return the following week to discuss schedules, travel arrangements and the terms of the contract in detail. Roger remained behind to speak with them. Selene had just slipped the envelope into her bag when Mary approached. The room had emptied enough that the click of her heels carried clearly across the floor.
“Congratulations,” Mary said.
The word held no warmth.
“Thank you.”
Selene tried to offer the same kindness she would have wanted in defeat.
“I really do wish you the best next time.”
Mary’s face changed. The careful public mask fractured, revealing the anger beneath it.
“Spare me your pity.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
Mary stepped closer.
“Enjoy yourself, Selene.”
There was something in her voice that made Selene’s shoulders stiffen.
“I intend to.”
Mary’s gaze travelled over her face, pausing on her smile.
“You’ll get what you deserve soon enough.”
She turned and disappeared through the exit. Selene watched the door close.
“Wow,” she murmured. “Charming.”
By the time Roger rejoined her, dusk had settled beyond the glass entrance doors. The interior lights reflected in the windows, leaving the outside world dark and indistinct. They stepped into a wind sharp enough to cut through Selene’s jacket. The car park stretched around the building in rows of wet asphalt and faded white lines. Most of the other cars had already gone. Metal fencing rattled along the edge of the property. Roger pointed across the road, where the windows of a restaurant glowed amber.
“Do you fancy getting something to eat? My treat.”
Selene’s exhaustion returned all at once. Now that the casting was over, every hour of standing, changing, smiling and pretending not to care had settled into her muscles.
“No. I just want to go home and sleep for about three days.”
“I can drive you. We’ll leave your car here and collect it next week.”
She considered it. Then Roger’s stomach growled loudly enough for them both to hear. Selene grinned.
“You go and eat.”
He pressed a hand to his stomach with offended dignity.
Selene hugged him.
“I’ll be fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
“And don’t pick up any strangers.”
“I promise.”
Roger ruffled her hair. Selene usually hated that. Tonight, she let him.
“You’re the best uncle anyone could wish for,” she said.
He pressed a hand to his heart and pretended to sniff.
“You’ll have me crying in the car park.”
“Go and eat before you collapse.”
She waved as she crossed towards her blue Toyota Aygo X. The cold wind followed her between the parked cars, needling her cheeks and lifting strands of hair across her eyes. Spring was nearly over, yet Scotland appeared to have misplaced the message. Selene unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat and placed her bag carefully beside her. The envelope protruded from the top. She checked it twice before starting the engine. Roger remained on the pavement. She lowered the window, waved one final time pulled out and drove into the darkness.
Nightingale Village lay almost fifty kilometres from Albion Shire, where Selene had lived until the previous year. Calling it a village had always struck her as weird. Nearly five thousand people lived there, enough for everyone to recognize one another without necessarily knowing anyone well. Her father had wanted peace. He wrote crime novels and claimed Albion Shire contained too many distractions, though Selene suspected the real distraction had been neighbours knocking on his door to ask whether they had inspired any of his murder victims. Their new house stood at the quieter edge of Nightingale Village, where rows of homes thinned into fields, woodland and narrow roads. The drive usually took a little over an hour. Dark clouds had covered the moon. Street lamps appeared at long intervals, each one revealing a brief stretch of glistening road before the darkness closed again. The wind pushed against the small car. Branches bowed along the verges. Every so often, rain struck the windscreen in short, hard bursts, then vanished before the wipers found a rhythm. Selene turned the heating higher. She had been driving for half an hour when the pressure in her bladder became impossible to ignore. She shifted in her seat.
“I really shouldn’t have drunk that water so quickly.”
Speaking aloud made the car feel less empty. She passed another sign. NIGHTINGALE VILLAGE, 38 MILES. Selene squeezed her knees together and stared at the road. The blankets stacked across the back seat rustled when the car hit a pothole. She had left them there after the heater stopped working the previous month. The car had spent nearly a week at the garage owned by her best friend’s father. He had repaired the heating, changed the brake pads and warned her that the Aygo X would not survive another winter if she continued driving it as though every road was a rally course. At that moment, however, Selene was simply grateful for warmth. A petrol station appeared ahead, its neon sign glowing faintly through the trees. Relief almost made her laugh. She turned in too quickly, tyres crunching across loose gravel, and stopped beside the nearest pump. Since the fuel gauge hovered below halfway, she decided to fill the tank while she was there. The wind tore at her hair as soon as she stepped outside. She bounced from one foot to the other while the numbers climbed, one hand holding the nozzle and the other pressed between her thighs.
“Come on. Come on.”
When the tank was finally filled, she returned the nozzle, hurried towards the shop, forgetting to lock the car. Warm fluorescent light met her inside. The place smelled of coffee, petrol and cleaning chemicals. Shelves crowded the narrow aisles with crisps, sweets, screenwash and objects no one had ever entered a petrol station intending to buy. A ginger cat lay across the counter beside the till, tail curled over its paws. The man behind it looked to be in his fifties. His name badge read TERRY. Thin grey hair had been combed carefully across the top of his head, and his glasses magnified his eyes. He nodded as Selene approached.
“Hi. Could I use the toilet, please?”
“O-o-of cour-r-rse.”
He pointed towards the back of the shop.
“J-j-just round th-there.”
“Thank you.”
Selene paid for the fuel and hurried away. The toilet was at the end of a cramped corridor. A chemical floral spray failed to conceal the smell beneath it. Damp had darkened the grout around the tiles, and one of the overhead bulbs flickered with a faint electrical buzz. Selene entered the first cubicle.
“Oh, sweet salvation.”
The relief was almost painful. While she dressed again, voices drifted from the shop. Terry appeared to be speaking to someone, though the wall and the wind rattling the building reduced the conversation to murmurs. A second voice answered. Low. Calm. Selene could not make out a word. By the time she washed her hands, the shop had fallen quiet again. She studied herself briefly in the spotted mirror. Her make-up had survived. Barely. Fatigue lay beneath her eyes, but happiness softened it. She had won. The knowledge still did not feel real. Selene returned to the counter. Terry was searching behind the till, moving receipts and boxes with increasing urgency.
“W-w-where’s my ph-phone?”
The cat raised its head, offended by the disturbance. Terry saw Selene and stopped searching.
“Y-y-your comp-p-pany-” he began.
“I’m travelling on my own.”
Selene smiled apologetically and turned towards the door. Her bladder was empty, the tank was full, and home waited at the end of the road.
“W-w-wait.”
She had already taken out her keys. Outside, the petrol station lights flickered. One of the neon tubes faded almost completely, leaving the forecourt in intermittent strips of dirty white. Selene crossed towards the Aygo X. Behind the glass, Terry came out from behind the counter. He hurried after her, waving both arms. A quick stab of unease went through her.
“Th-th-there’s s-s-someo-” he called.
Selene opened the door and got in.
“I’m sorry,” she called through the window. “I need to get home.”
She started the engine. Terry reached the edge of the forecourt as she pulled away.
“There’s som-m-meone on y-y-your back s-s-seat!”
The wind and engine swallowed the warning. Selene saw him in the mirror, standing beneath the failing lights with both hands raised. Then the road curved, and the petrol station disappeared.
By the time she reached Nightingale Village, the sky had cleared enough for moonlight to silver the clouds. Selene turned onto the narrow road leading towards her home. The houses stood farther apart here, separated by hedges, gardens and strips of untended land. Most windows were dark. A few televisions flickered behind curtains. Her house stood beyond a row of terraced homes, slightly removed from the others and screened by an old oak tree. It was a two-storey building with pale stone walls and a dark roof that still showed newer tiles where the storm had torn through it. The storm had done worse beneath the surface. Floodwater had undermined the original foundations, and contractors had spent the previous fortnight replacing supports beneath the house piece by piece. Timber boards concealed most of the access space, though gaps remained where the work had not been finished. Spiders had found those gaps immediately. Selene tried not to think about them. When she was six, she had woken during an episode of sleep paralysis to find a spider moving across her stomach. She had felt each leg through her nightdress. It had climbed over her chest, along her throat and onto her cheek while her body remained useless beneath it. The memory still visited her at night occasionally. Modelling had taught Selene how to stand still while strangers touched her face, adjusted her clothes and examined her skin beneath bright lights. It had never taught her how to forget the sensation of those tiny legs crossing her lips. She parked beneath the oak and switched off the engine. Silence pressed in around the car. Selene stretched until her shoulders clicked, then opened the door and stepped into the cold. She pressed the lock button. The Aygo X answered with a sharp mechanical click. The front steps were narrow and damp. She climbed them while searching through her bag. Lipstick. Wallet. Contract. Hairbrush. At last her fingers closed around the house key.
“Got you.”
She lifted it towards the lock. A soft sound came from the car. Selene stopped. It might have been fabric shifting. Or the suspension settling after the drive. She turned. The Aygo X sat beneath the oak, its windows black. The street lamp beyond the hedge cast a weak reflection across the windscreen, but the interior remained hidden. The wind moved through the branches above it. Nothing else. Selene faced the door again. A second sound followed. Closer to a tap this time. She looked back sharply. An acorn struck the bonnet and bounced onto the drive. Selene released the breath she had been holding.
“You’re worrying too much. Calm down.”
She unlocked the door, stepped inside and entered the four-digit code to reactivate the alarm. The familiar confirmation tone sounded. Home. She kicked off her boots and hurried upstairs. Her bedroom occupied one side of the upper floor, with a small bathroom and balcony of its own. Her parents’ studies stood opposite, both doors closed. Downstairs were their bedroom, the kitchen, a toilet and the living room at the rear of the house. Selene’s walls were covered with photographs and posters of models she had admired since childhood. Cara Delevingne. Heidi Klum. Cindy Crawford. Between them were smaller pictures of family holidays, school friends and backstage moments Roger had insisted on printing. She placed the contract on her desk. Sleep had been her only ambition during the drive, but the heat of the casting rooms still clung to her skin. Sweat had dried beneath her clothes, leaving her uncomfortable and faintly chilled. She chose a loose grey shirt and a pair of soft shorts from the wardrobe, then carried them into the bathroom. The shower water took time to warm. When it did, Selene stepped beneath it and closed her eyes. Heat ran through her hair and over her shoulders. The tension she had carried all day began to loosen. She washed away make-up, perfume and the residue of other people’s hands. For several minutes, she remained beneath the stream without moving, listening to water strike the tiles. She had won. Tomorrow she would ring her parents. Next week she would discuss travel. After that, perhaps London. Paris. Milan. Places that had existed only in magazines might soon become hotel rooms, airports and stages beneath her own feet. Selene smiled into the water. After drying herself, she pulled on the clean clothes and wrapped a towel around her hair. A car door slammed outside. The sound was unmistakable. Selene lowered the towel. Her parents were not due back for three days. She crossed to the bathroom window and looked down at the drive. Her car stood alone. The road beyond it was empty. She waited, expecting headlights to appear between the hedges. Nothing came. The oak shifted in the wind. Its branches scraped softly against one another. Selene finished drying her hair faster than before. The warm shower had left her limbs heavy, yet the small unease remained. She told herself the noise must have carried from another house. She returned to her bedroom and fell face-first onto the bed. The mattress received her with a soft bounce. Selene buried her face in the pillow. Her eyes had almost closed when brightness pressed through her lids. The light. She had forgotten to switch it off. Selene groaned and drummed both fists weakly against the mattress.
She pushed herself upright, crossed the room and reached towards the switch. Glass shattered downstairs. The sound tore through the house. Selene recoiled, a cry escaping her before she could stop it. A rush of wind followed from somewhere below. Curtains or papers began flapping. Then her bedroom light went out. Darkness swallowed the room. Selene screamed again. Her hand found the wall. She moved along it until her hip struck the desk. Fingers sweeping across the surface, she found her phone and activated the torch. The beam lit her wardrobe, the foot of the bed and the open bathroom door. Everything beyond that narrow circle became deeper darkness. It reminded Selene of the found-footage films her friends adored. The ones in which someone always went to investigate a noise despite the audience begging them not to. She looked towards the bedroom door. Lock it. Stay upstairs. Call someone. The alarm should already have triggered. Unless the broken glass had nothing to do with a door or window connected to the system. Her parents had been furious the previous two times the security company had been called unnecessarily. Once during a party, after someone knocked into the alarm unit. Again when her ex-boyfriend failed to close the door properly. A third false alarm would bring another lecture. Selene hated that this mattered to her. She stepped into the landing. The torch beam reached only halfway down the stairs. Beyond it waited a block of darkness broken by the faint grey of a downstairs window. Cold air moved through the house. Selene gripped the phone and began to descend. The stone steps felt colder beneath her bare feet. Each small creak made her pause. She held the light ahead, searching the hallway, the front door and the entrances to the downstairs rooms. Nothing moved. At the bottom, she looked towards the alarm panel. A red light flashed.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Selene.”
Her voice sounded too loud. She entered the code. The red light became green. The landline rang behind her. Selene screamed and spun so quickly that her shoulder struck the wall. The telephone continued ringing from the small table beside the stairs. A landline. Ancient, according to most of her friends, but her parents insisted that mobile phones could be lost, broken or allowed to run out of charge. Selene grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. This is the security service. Who am I speaking to?”
The voice belonged to a young man. Selene pressed a hand to her chest.
“Selene Clarke.”
“You’re the daughter of Jolie Clarke. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“For verification, I’ll need your four-digit code, Mrs Clarke.”
“Of course. It’s 1462.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. The alarm has been triggered. Is everything all right, or would you like us to send somebody round?”
Selene looked down the hall. The cold draught touched her legs.
“I don’t know. I heard glass breaking downstairs. I was going to have a look.”
She hesitated. The silence in the house felt larger when the man stopped speaking.
“Mrs Clarke?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
Selene wrapped the telephone cord around her fingers.
“Would you mind staying on the line with me?”
“Of course. For as long as you need.”
Relief softened her knees.
“Thank you.”
She carried the receiver in one hand and her mobile in the other, moving towards the rear of the house. The torch beam shook across framed photographs and pale walls.
“How long have you been working for the security firm?” she asked, hoping small talk would ease her growing fear.
“Almost six months.”
A trace of uncertainty entered his voice. Selene smiled despite herself.
“You’re doing very well for someone so new. I already feel safer.”
He cleared his throat.
“Thank you very much, Mrs Clarke. That’s very kind of you.”
She passed the downstairs toilet and approached the living room.
“You can call me Selene. Mrs Clarke makes me feel ancient.”
“Of course, Mrs,” he stopped himself. “Selene.”
The living-room door stood open. Selene pushed it wider with her foot. The moonlight revealed the damage before her phone did. The window behind the sofa had shattered. Glass lay across the floor and cushions. A thick branch rested among the fragments, leaves trembling in the wind. Selene’s shoulders loosened.
“I found it.”
“What happened?”
“A branch came through the window. The storm must have broken it.”
“Be careful of the glass.”
“I will.”
She crouched beside the sofa, took a heavy blanket from the back and used it to gather the larger fragments. The broken edges scraped softly against one another. She placed the bundle on a side table.
“Since you know my name, may I know yours?”
“Sebastian Michaelis.”
Selene laughed.
“That sounds like someone from a television series.”
A small pause followed.
“Yes. My parents were cruel when it came to names.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s lovely.”
His amused exhale came quietly through the receiver. Selene stood and examined the rest of the room. No one was there. Nothing else appeared damaged.
“I think everything’s fine.”
“I’m glad.”
“Thank you, my light in the darkness.”
“It was my pleasure. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”
He paused.
“I mean, call the firm.”
His nervousness was sweet. Selene rested her hip against the sofa.
“Are you flirting with me, Sebastian?”
“Perhaps.”
He laughed, then cleared his throat with exaggerated seriousness.
“My boss is looking at me. I suspect he considers laughter inappropriate during such important work.”
“Then we should hang up before I get you dismissed.”
“Sleep well Mrs...,” He stopped. “Sleep well, Selene.”
“You too. When you get home.”
She returned the receiver to its cradle. A broad smile spread across her face. He had been sweet. Nice too. Selene crossed the dark hallway with far less caution than before. Her fear had dissolved into embarrassment at having been frightened by a branch. Back in her bedroom, she settled against the pillows with a fashion magazine and used her phone’s torch to read. The battery icon glowed red at the top of the screen, but she ignored it. Twenty minutes passed. She read the same page three times. Her attention kept drifting back to Sebastian’s voice. She considered ringing the security company, then imagined his boss answering and asking why she needed emergency assistance. Because your employee sounds attractive was unlikely to qualify. Selene turned another page. Her ex-boyfriend had been charming too, at first. That relationship had lasted six months. Long enough for compliments to become criticism, criticism to become control, and control to become arguments that still followed her a year later. She rubbed her left arm. Even now, she sometimes remembered his fingers closing there. The bruises had faded. The instinct to cover the spot had not.
“Enough.”
Selene closed the magazine.
“Time to sleep.”
She switched off the torch and placed the phone beside her pillow. The house returned to darkness. Five minutes later, she was drifting towards sleep when a deafening burst of music shook the floor beneath her. Selene sat upright. Her ribs tightened around a breath she could not release. Don’t Fear the Reaper thundered from the sound system downstairs, loud enough to make the glass in her balcony door vibrate. She snatched up her phone. The torch flickered on. The battery showed ten per cent. Was the electricity back? Selene crossed to the wall and tried the light switch. Nothing. She tried again. The room remained dark. How could the sound system be working?
“Some of the fuses must have tripped.”
The fuse box was in the pantry beside the kitchen. Selene ran downstairs. The music grew more oppressive with every step. She grabbed the landline and pressed redial.
“Sentinel Vanguard Security, Michaelis spea-,” Sebastian broke off. “What on earth is that noise?”
“Sebastian, it’s me.”
“Selene? Are you having a party?”
“Of course. Fancy coming over?”
“I’ll still be at work for a good while.”
His cheekiness eased some of her fear. Selene hurried into the living room and switched off the sound system. Silence crashed down almost as violently as the music.
“Selene?”
“I’m here. Sorry. I’m just confused.”
“About what?”
She tried the living-room light. Nothing.
“The sound system works, but none of the lights do.”
“Have you checked the fuse box?”
“On my way.”
In the kitchen, she opened the pantry and found the small white panel near the shelves. Every switch was down.
“Yes. They’ve all tripped.”
She pushed them up one by one. The refrigerator gave no hum. The kitchen light remained dead. Selene stepped back into the hall and pressed another switch. Nothing.
“Is it working?” Sebastian asked.
“No. All the fuses are up, but there’s still no power.”
“There may be damage to the main cable outside.”
“You seem very well informed.”
“All part of the job, ma’am.”
Pride warmed his voice. Selene almost laughed.
“That still doesn’t explain the sound system.”
She returned to the living room and followed the cable behind the cabinet. Instead of leading directly into the wall socket, it connected to a large portable battery unit half hidden beneath a side table. Selene crouched. She had never seen it before.
“My father must have bought a battery for the sound system. Odd.”
“Men and their love of technology.”
“Exactly.”
The main power cable ran through the wall towards the garden. Selene approached the sliding glass door. Outside, the garden was black. The room behind her reflected across the glass, making it difficult to see anything beyond her own pale face and the trembling beam from her phone.
“Are you outside?” Sebastian asked.
“In a second.”
She unlocked the door and slid it open. Cold air poured into the room. The grass was wet beneath her bare feet. Wind pulled at her shirt and drove loose strands of hair across her mouth. At the far end of the garden stood the small red wooden shed. The power cable ran along the wall before disappearing behind it. The red door creaked as Selene opened it. Her phone illuminated gardening tools, paint tins and a narrow cupboard against the side wall. The cable lay across the floor. Severed. Selene stopped. The two ends were clean. Too clean. No tearing. No burn marks. No damage from weather or animals. A blade had passed through it. Her skin prickled beneath the cold.
“Sebastian?”
Her voice shook.
“Yes?”
“I think someone’s here.”
His tone changed immediately. The nervous young man disappeared. A professional calm replaced him.
“What makes you think that?”
“The power cable has been cut. It wasn’t the storm.”
“Do you know how to repair it?”
Selene stared at the severed ends.
“No. Do you?”
“Not exactly. You would need a crimping tool. There may be one in the drawer of the cupboard beside the cable.”
Selene began to reach towards it. Her arm stopped. The wind moved through the open doorway behind her.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes?”
“How do you know there’s a cupboard in our shed?”
A brief silence.
“I was there when the security system was installed.”
Selene straightened. Her fingers closed harder around the receiver.
“No, you weren’t.”
The silence deepened.
“Two older men installed it. I was here that day,” she continued.
Nothing.
“Sebastian?”
When the voice returned, all warmth had vanished.
“Oh, Selene.”
The words passed through her like cold water.
“It’s been such fun talking to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was lovely to have a pleasant conversation before you die.”
The voice changed as the final word left the receiver. It distorted into something that belonged to no clear age or sex, a mechanical blend of pitches layered over one another. Selene turned towards the open door.
“Where are you?”
“Why don’t you find out ... little ginger?”
She spun, expecting someone behind her. The shed stood empty. The red door swung in the wind.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Why? Are you dissatisfied with our security service? Please remain on the line and complete a brief review.”
The warm version of the voice returned for the last sentence. Then came laughter. Selene ended the call. She stepped out of the shed and listened. Wind moved through the garden. Leaves scraped along the fence. Somewhere beyond the neighbouring houses, a dog barked once and fell silent. Selene crossed the grass towards the house. Her mobile vibrated. UNKNOWN NUMBER. She answered without thinking.
“Hello?”
“It is very rude for a young lady to hang up like that.”
Selene began to run. Wet grass slipped beneath her feet. She nearly fell before reaching the patio. She rushed through the sliding door, pulled it shut and turned the lock.
“Rude again,” the voice continued. “Have you just locked me out, or in?”
The sound system erupted once again behind her. The same song. The same brutal volume. Selene clamped one hand over her free ear.
“Do you fear death?” the caller asked.
The distorted voice sounded almost sorrowful.
“Why are you doing this?”
Tears blurred the room.
“Why, Sebastian? Why are you doing this?”
“You could say I’m sending an advance warning.”
“Your name is not Sebastian, right?”
“My name isn’t Sebastian Michaelis. You were right. The name comes from a television series.”
“Then what is your name?”
“That would be a spoiler. It would ruin everything I have planned.”
Selene backed away from the glass.
“Please leave me alone.”
Her phone vibrated against her cheek. One per cent left.
“Tick tock,” the person on the phone said. “Don’t tell me your phone is about to die?”
The screen went black the second the caller finished the sentence. The torch vanished. Selene lowered the dead phone. Moonlight entered through the broken living-room window and the garden doors. It painted the furniture in shades of grey and left the corners untouched. The landline rang. Selene flinched. It rang again. She did not want to answer. The third ring sounded louder than the first two. She crossed the room and lifted the receiver. The distorted voice greeted her immediately.
“What will you do now, Selene? Alone in the dark, without knowing what is waiting in the shadows around you.”
She looked towards the hallway.
“Do you hear a floorboard creak? A breath? A quiet laugh just beyond the light of the moon? How long can you stand there before your imagination becomes worse than anything I could do?”
Selene glanced at the garden doors. She could escape that way. Run across the neighbouring gardens. Scream until someone switched on a light. She began moving backwards, keeping her eyes on the dark living room. Her free hand stretched behind her until her fingertips touched the cold glass. She turned. Her throat closed. A black-cloaked figure stood beyond the patio doors. The garden behind the glass was almost completely black. Only the pale line of the fence and the tops of the hedges could be made out beneath the moonlight. Against that darkness stood the shape of a person, motionless and impossibly close to the door. A blue demon mask covered its face, the features stretched into a fixed expression of anguish. The hollows around its eyes seemed completely black.
Selene screamed and stumbled away from the glass.
“Do you think they’ll still let you model,” the voice asked through the telephone, “after all the stitches it will take to sew you together?”
“Please stop.”
Her legs threatened to fold beneath her. The figure did not move. It simply watched her from the darkness outside.
“How do you know about the modelling?”
»The contract was on your back seat. That’s where I found your telephone number too.«
The masked head tilted slightly.
“Thank you for the lift.”
The petrol station returned to her in fragments. Terry leaving the counter. His arms waving. His desperate voice disappearing beneath the wind and the engine. Selene’s stomach contracted.
“You were in my car.”
“Yes,” the voice whispered. “You should have listened to the stuttering man.”
She stared at the mask.
“Stealing his telephone was easy. He may even be blamed for your death. People do enjoy simple explanations.”
“Get out!”
Her fear sharpened into anger.
“Leave me alone. That door is bulletproof glass. You won’t get through it.”
“I thought I was your light in the darkness.”
The figure remained perfectly still.
Selene tightened her grip around the receiver. The glass was between them. Whatever the caller had done to the power, whatever had happened in the house, there was still a locked door between them. She could run. She could reach the front door.
“And why would I want to go back outside?”
Selene stopped. The sentence took a second to settle.
“What?”
Something about the glass changed as she shifted her weight. Her own face appeared faintly across it. Pale skin. Red hair. The telephone pressed against her cheek.
A reflection. Selene stared. The darkness outside had hidden it until she knew where to look. The living room lay across the glass in a ghostly second image, almost transparent over the garden. Her eyes returned to the masked figure. Not beyond the glass. In it.
Behind the figure’s shoulder was a pale vertical line she had mistaken for part of the fence.
It was the reflection of the living-room doorway. Her breathing stopped.
The figure was not standing on the patio. She was looking at its reflection.
Selene turned. The masked figure stood inside the living room. Only a few steps away. For one paralysed instant, neither moved.
The demon mask that had seemed safely separated from her by reinforced glass was suddenly close enough that she could see scratches across the blue surface.
The figure lowered the mobile from beneath the mask and tucked it inside the cloak.
Selene dropped the landline. The figure drew a knife. The blade flashed towards her.
She twisted aside. Pain opened along her ribs, hot and immediate. Selene shoved past the figure, shoulder striking the cloak, and ran.
Footsteps followed. Fast. She reached the front door and seized the handle.
It would not open. Selene pulled harder. Nothing. Her gaze shot upwards.
The heavy upper bolt had been pushed into place. Electrical cable had been wound tightly around it and the metal fitting beside the frame, knot upon knot drawn so hard that she could barely get her fingernails beneath them.
“No. No, no, no.”
She clawed at the cable. It would not give. The killer had prepared the house while she moved from room to room. The calls. The music. The shed. The broken window.
Every distraction had kept her looking where the figure wanted her to look.
Air shifted behind her. Selene threw herself sideways. The figure’s shoulder slammed into the front door where she had been standing. Wood shook in its frame. The demon mask struck the wall with a hollow crack. Selene ran for the stairs. Her bare feet slipped on the first step. She caught the banister, dragged herself upright and climbed. Three steps. Four. Five.
A sharp impact struck the back of her left thigh. For an instant, she felt only the force.
Then came pain. Selene screamed. The knife had entered above her knee.
The figure seized the handle and pulled. Selene’s body jerked backwards. Her fingers scraped along the banister as she fought to hold herself up. The blade moved inside her leg with every tug, turning the pain into something white and blinding. She kicked blindly with her right foot. Her heel struck the mask. The figure staggered. The knife tore free.
Selene cried out and dragged herself upwards, using both hands on the rail. Blood ran down her calf, warm against skin still cold from the garden. Her injured leg folded whenever she tried to put weight on it. She climbed anyway. One step at a time. She reached the landing.
Something moved behind her. A soft rush through the air. The knife struck her back.
The force threw Selene forwards. She hit the floor hard enough to empty her lungs. Her chin struck the carpet. Light burst across her vision. She tried to breathe. Nothing came.
Her mouth opened uselessly. Her fingers clawed at the carpet.
The knife protruded between her shoulder blades. Selene dragged herself forwards.
Towards her bedroom. Towards anywhere. She knew only that stopping meant dying.
The figure climbed the remaining stairs. Slowly now. There was no need to run any more. Selene heard each footstep approach until black boots appeared beside her face. She reached for the nearest ankle. Her hand lacked the strength to close. The figure lifted one boot and placed it against the knife handle.
“Please.”
The word left her as a broken whisper. Pressure came slowly. The blade sank deeper. Selene’s body arched. Her mouth opened, but pain stole the scream. Heat spread through her chest, followed by a coldness that reached her fingers. The figure pressed until the handle met her back. Whatever strength remained in Selene began to drain away. The boot lifted. The figure knelt, gripped the handle and tore the knife free. Selene felt the first strike. The second became pressure. By the third, her body only twitched. Her vision smeared into colour and darkness. Hands closed around her ankles. She was dragged towards the stairs. Her head struck the first step. Then the next. Each impact reached her from farther away. The front door opened. Cold night air touched her face. Her body travelled across the drive and towards the unfinished space beneath the house. Gravel scraped her arms. Loose earth gathered in her hair. The figure pulled her through the gap between the foundation boards. Darkness closed around her. The ground smelled of wet soil, timber and stagnant water. Pipes ran overhead. Cobwebs clung between the new supports. Selene could no longer feel the wounds clearly. She could scarcely feel anything. The demon mask hovered above her.
“You truly did have a unique smile, Selene.”
The figure crawled backwards and disappeared through the opening. Selene stared into the darkness. A spider lowered itself from the timber above. Its legs touched the ground. It moved slowly towards her face.
The figure returned to the house. Blood marked the front steps and the hallway, but the storm had strengthened outside. Rain would reach the drive soon enough. Upstairs, Selene’s bedroom remained faintly silver beneath the moonlight. The figure entered without switching on a light. A car approached along the road. Its engine slowed outside the house. The figure heard a door open below but did not hurry. On Selene’s bedside table stood a framed photograph. Selene smiled from the centre, surrounded by several pupils of a similar age. A black-gloved finger moved across the glass. It stopped over the face of a dark-haired girl. Behind the blue demon mask, the figure smiled.
“Let the game begin.”
