Chapter 12
Erica found herself the next day sitting in her car at the bottom of the hill, staring at her phone.
Signal.
The digital world hummed back into existence as she seized the moment. She downloaded music, podcasts, films. Anything to keep her entertained once she was sealed back inside the cottage. Sealed was the right word. Once she passed the last flicker of signal, that was it. Cut off.
She’d slept hard the night before. Eventually.
Sleep hadn’t come easily. Every gust of wind, every scrape of loose ivy or debris against the wooden frame had set her nerves jangling.
But when she had finally given in, it had been a deep, dreamless surrender, like falling straight through it where neither Steven or the wreckage of her old life could follow.
Now, away from the cottage, Erica felt restless. It was an itch beneath her skin, something crawling just under the surface. She needed noise. Distraction. Something to keep her from thinking.
She opened her inbox.
There it was again.
Jenna Armstrong: Follow-up – GhostLoreUK opportunity!
Another pitch. Another eager request to “collab” or “jump on a quick Zoom”. Erica didn’t even open it. She clicked Jenna’s name and watched the chain of emails unfurl, dozens of them stacked like a tower.
Delete.
Gone.
She closed the tab, trying to steady herself.
Then another notification popped up.
Bennett & Lowe LLP
Her stomach dropped. The preview vanished before she could read it, but the name alone was enough. The last time she’d opened one of those emails, she’d ended up on the cliff, staring down at the waves, her mind a blur of panic and static.
Not today.
She shut her laptop, switched off her phone, and let it fall onto the passenger seat. She had enough downloaded to last the night. Though if she wanted to sleep, she might still need whatever Leah had passed her with a raised eyebrow and a “don’t tell anyone”.
She snorted softly at herself.
A rational, grounded woman had no reason to fear ghosts, witches, or creaky old cottages. The only thing she should fear was her ex-husband and his legal team. They were far more likely to haunt her than anything supernatural.
And yet.
She found herself driving into town.
The shop window was just as cluttered as before. Bundles of dried herbs hung from hooks like upside-down bouquets. Jars of dark, viscous things lined the shelves. Crystals glinted beneath dim bulbs. A fan of tarot cards lay beside a skull carved from green stone.
And there was the cat.
The enormous tabby sat upright this time, its golden eyes fixed on Erica with unnerving intensity.
She paused on the pavement, inhaled, then held her breath.
She wasn’t afraid of Margery. That would be ridiculous.
Before she could overthink it, the door creaked open.
Margery stood there, smiling. “Well, if it isn’t my returning customer.”
Erica hesitated. “Hello,” she said, suddenly feeling like she’d been caught doing something she hadn’t meant to do. “I was just … walking past.”
“And you weren’t sure about coming in?”
“Well, no, I just—”
“Mmm.” Margery’s mouth twitched. “Not here for a love potion, are you?”
Erica blinked. “Sorry?”
Margery stepped aside with a theatrical little bow. “Perhaps not. But maybe I can tempt you with something far more dangerous. Tea.”
On the counter sat two heavy ceramic mugs, deep turquoise and slightly misshapen, like they hadn’t quite decided what they were. The glaze shimmered like sea glass.
“You’ve timed it nicely,” Margery said, already moving behind the counter. “I’ve just brewed a pot.”
She pressed a mug into Erica’s hands. It was warm and oddly comforting.
“Don’t be put off by the design,” Margery added. “My partner, Rosa, is a sculptor. Very talented. Still negotiating with gravity.”
Erica snorted before she could stop herself.
Margery retrieved two folding chairs from beside a velvet-draped mannequin and unfolded them. Erica sat. The chair gave an alarming creak.
“It’ll hold,” Margery said cheerfully. “Most of the time.”
Erica raised the mug to her nose. “What is it?”
“Rose-hip, honey, and cinnamon,” Margery said. “A little floral, a little spicy. Definitely not poisoned.”
Erica raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Also, good for the nerves.”
“I don’t have nerves,” Erica said automatically.
Margery smiled over her own mug. “Everyone does, dear. Some just pretend very convincingly.”
Erica took a sip. The tea was warm and gently sharp, softened by honey. She felt something in her chest loosen, just a fraction.
Margery settled back. “So. How’s the clifftop cottage?”
Erica hesitated. “It’s … quiet.”
“It’s quite the place. I was delighted when I saw it had finally been restored. You know, I used to play there as a girl.”
Erica raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Oh yes. Back then it was nothing but a ruin. Crumbling walls, half-fallen beams, the sort of place you were told never to go, which of course meant we went every chance we got.” Margery smiled at the memory.
“We’d sneak through the gaps in the fence like we were explorers.
Heroes of a very small, very muddy kingdom. ”
“And you weren’t scared?”
“Terrified,” Margery said cheerfully. “But fear has a way of making things feel alive. Especially when you’re young.”
Erica found herself smiling despite herself.
“But the garden,” Margery went on, lowering her voice, “that was always the real wonder. Or what was left of it, anyway.”
“In what way?” Erica asked, setting her mug down.
Margery studied her over the rim of her tea. “The carvings. They say the woman who lived there long ago left them behind. Isobel Grant.”
“Before it became a ruin?”
“Long before.” Margery nodded. “I’m surprised no one’s mentioned her to you yet.”
“Well … everything happened rather quickly. I hadn’t planned to move there.”
Erica stopped herself from saying any more. Soon she’d be talking about her failed marriage if she wasn’t careful. She sniffed the tea casually.
“And I imagine you’re not one for village gossip.” Margery gave a small smile. “My daughters say history is just old stories that get in the way of what’s new.”
“Actually,” Erica said, “I studied history at university.”
Margery brightened. “Did you? How marvellous. A proper scholar.”
“Not quite. I was … well, I’m an influencer.” The word still felt strange in her mouth.
Margery blinked, then smiled. “Ah. That explains the good hair.”
Erica laughed, startled by it. “So,” she said, when the moment settled, “what happened to Isobel Grant?”
Margery traced the rim of her cup. “She was accused of being a witch.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. That particular story, I’m afraid, is all too familiar.” Margery’s voice was gentle but firm. “Most of them weren’t witches at all. Just women who were inconvenient. Too clever. Too independent. Too strange. Or simply alone.”
Erica felt something tighten in her chest.
“Sometimes,” Margery went on, “all it took was being noticed. Or not fitting neatly where you were expected to.”
Erica thought of comment sections, headlines, strangers deciding who she was allowed to be. She didn’t speak, but Margery seemed to sense it.
“I don’t believe Isobel did anything wrong,” Margery added quietly. “But belief doesn’t save you when a story gets loose.”
Erica swallowed. “I’ve read about the trials. They were … horrific.”
“That’s putting it kindly.” Margery gave a small shudder. “Still, we like to think we’re better now. Kinder. More enlightened.” She smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “Perhaps we are. A little.”
Erica took the last sip of her tea. “I was wondering if I could get some more sage.”
Margery’s eyebrows lifted. “Already?” Then she chuckled and disappeared into the back, returning with two thick bundles. “Take extra. Just in case.”
Erica paid, tucked them into her bag, and headed for the door.
As she reached it, Margery said softly, “Look in the garden when you’re ready. You’ll see what I saw as a girl.”
Erica ventured down the street, tucking the herbs inside her bag before stopping for a few essentials – a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, and a chocolate pudding that had been taunting her from the bakery window.
She skirted around the harbour, taking her time.
The hills on the other side of the water were fading into the deepening dusk, their shapes fading into the sea.
Boats swayed at their moorings, the sound of ropes creaking and sails rustling in the wind.
She wrapped her hands around a takeaway coffee, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she watched people battle the relentless wind – hoods up, collars turned, heads down.
Winter was settling in already, creeping into the town like an old friend. The boutique shop windows glowed, spilling golden light onto the cobbled streets, illuminating the trees that still clung to their last copper and amber leaves. Even on a dark day, Rock Cove managed to look inviting.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Leah.
Erica hesitated, then slipped the phone back into her pocket without reading it.
By the time she reached her car, the light was disappearing fast. She followed the winding single-track road home, the sky turning inky blue, the trees on either side twisting into dark shapes.
By the time she reached the top of the cliffs, the garden was lost to shadow.
She thought about grabbing a torch, but the cold had already settled deep in her bones, and the wind howled against the walls as she stepped inside.
Instead, she locked the door, drew the curtains, and set about warming the place up.
The fire was reluctant at first but caught eventually, the flames snapping and curling, spilling flickering light across the wooden floorboards.
She swapped her jeans for leggings, thick wool socks and an oversized jumper, pouring herself a glass of wine as she curled up in the battered old armchair by the hearth.
Outside, the wind howled across the cliffs, rattling the windows. Inside, the fire crackled, the scent of herbs and wax from an old candle mingling with the buttery sweetness of warm chocolate pudding.
She’d check the garden tomorrow.
For tonight, she just wanted to be warm.
Later, after a few episodes and another unnecessary bundle of sage, the wind had picked up, rattling the door and the front windows.
It was a noise she’d need to get used to, living so high up, but she had hoped the cluster of shrubs around the cottage would shield it from the worst of the gales.
She couldn’t imagine the place without them.
Without some kind of shelter, it would feel as though the house might simply be lifted off the cliff and carried away.
She clicked off the lamp, ready to crawl into bed.
Then she heard it.
A strange sound. Thin, broken. Almost strangled.
A shiver curled up her spine.
The wind roared again, shaking the door in its frame. Erica reached for the nearest object to defend herself with – her hairdryer. Brilliant. That sound again – high-pitched, desperate.
Her heart thumped. Was it kids playing a prank? No, no one would be hanging around up here, not on a night like this.
She needed to know what it was.
Creeping down the hallway, she strained to listen. Was it coming from the garden? She turned, tiptoeing to the back door, fingers hovering over the lock. The wind howled again, louder this time, as if urging her to stay inside.
She ignored it.
Taking a breath, she threw the door open.
The wind slammed against her, lashing rain into her face. The night was thick with shadows, the trees bending and groaning. She squinted into the darkness.
Then something moved.
A small shape darted from the door to the nearest bush, dark against dark. Erica’s breath caught. Please don’t be a rat.
Then – that sound again. A pitiful, broken cry, nearly drowned out by the storm.
Not a rat.
Her dressing gown clung to her in the downpour, but she didn’t care. She had to know. She crouched, peering beneath the dripping foliage. And there, huddled against the cold, was a tiny black kitten.
It shrank back, ears flattened, but didn’t run. It looked miserable. Soaked through, trembling violently.
“Hey,” Erica murmured, voice soft despite the wind ripping around her.
The kitten didn’t move.
Rain pounded against her back and seeped into her slippers. She had no choice. Wincing, she reached out and carefully grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck, bracing for claws.
None came.
It was too weak to fight her.
Holding the drenched little creature close, Erica rushed inside, kicking the door shut behind her. The cottage embraced her instantly, the fire’s glow flickering against the wooden floor.
The kitten was pitiful. Tiny. Its blue eyes, crusted at the edges, blinked drowsily up at her. It shivered uncontrollably in her hands.
She needed to warm it up.
She hurried to the Rayburn, setting a small bowl down and filling it with milk. The kitten just slumped on the ground, barely reacting.
“Come on, little one,” she coaxed, nudging the bowl closer. Nothing.
A knot of worry tightened in her chest. She ran to the microwave, warming the milk just slightly, then dipped her finger in and pressed it gently to the kitten’s mouth.
At first, nothing.
Then, slowly, a tiny, weak suck.
Relief flooded her. She kept going, patient, dipping her finger again and again, letting it take just enough to keep going.
She had no idea what she was doing.
The pitiful creature was barely holding on, its tiny body limp in her hands. She found herself willing it to live, whispering encouragement into the dimly lit kitchen, as if that might be enough.
Outside, the storm raged, wind battering the windows, rain hammering against the roof. The cottage groaned under the force of it, but inside, by the warmth of the Rayburn, there was only stillness. Only the soft rise and fall of the kitten’s breath – too shallow, too slow.
Erica pulled the thickest towel she could find from the drying rack, wrapping the little thing carefully, tucking it close against her. She barely noticed the chill clinging to her own skin, the damp weight of her dressing gown. It didn’t matter.
She wouldn’t sleep. Not yet.
Instead, she curled up on the armchair by the fire, the flickering light casting long shadows across the room. The kitten’s body was impossibly small against her chest.
She closed her eyes, just for a moment.
Outside, the storm howled on.