The Guesthouse. Abbie Frost

Her voice sounded hollow in the cavernous hallway. She walked to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hello, anybody there?’

      The sound echoed. Silence seemed to settle into every dark corner of the house, and a cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine. The building was empty. That shape at the window must have been a curtain or just a shadow.

      With another quick glance around she kicked off her white New Balance trainers. At least they had been white. Now they were covered in slimy mud, bits of grass, and soaked through with water. Ben would probably have suggested she buy hiking boots, but Ben wasn’t here any more.

      She hurried upstairs, her trainers in one hand, not wanting to ruin the soft new carpet. Here were the bedroom doors, each with a brass number plate and a neat keypad, all freshly painted in gleaming white. The two rooms at the top of the stairs were numbers five and six. The website had only offered five rooms to rent, but it looked as if there were at least ten.

      Her room was number one, right at the far end of what should probably be called the west wing. There was another door next to it, but it was narrow and unnumbered. A storeroom or something similar perhaps. And right at the end of the corridor a tall window. She peered out of it and saw that it faced the gates. This could be the window she imagined she’d seen the figure standing at, but there was no one here now.

      Looking through the glass she could see that muddy track snaking away through the rough green grass, a pale sun low in the sky, peeking through the clouds. She had got here just in time. Wouldn’t like to navigate that in the dark.

      Outside her own room she tapped in the second code, the floorboards creaking under her feet. With a final glance back along the corridor, she told herself to ignore the feeling that she was being watched. Even if there were no other guests, a week alone would do her good. Make her less jumpy. She could exercise, stay off the booze. She’d soon get used to the isolation, to the high ceilings and the long, silent corridors.

      But as soon as she was inside, she locked the door behind her, trying to calm the heavy beat of her heart.

      The room was spacious and light. A bed stood against one wall with the bathroom next to it. Opposite, a wardrobe and an enlarged photograph of a bay with a stormy sea. Close to the door stood a chest of drawers with a kettle and drinks on top.

      Through the huge window she could look down on what once must have been a pretty rose garden at the side of the house. Now it was just a mass of bare stems and tangled undergrowth. The ground rose then dipped away into the distance towards grey-blue hills on the horizon and, beyond them, a strip of the Atlantic Ocean.

      It would all have been so different if Ben was with her. She swallowed and dumped her case by the window. Threw her rucksack onto the floor, then remembered the vodka and pulled out the bottle, staring at the label. She deserved all of this: the mud, the loneliness, the miserable walk through the fog and rain. The shittier the better. Keep it coming. The thing to remember was: stop thinking about Ben. He was gone and she had to carry on with her life.

      The en-suite bathroom was spacious with a row of expensive-looking toiletries and a pile of soft white towels on a shelf behind the door. She took a glass from beside the sink and poured in a slug of vodka. Topped it up with Coke, swallowed a long gulp and sighed.

      Once she had changed out of her muddy clothes and spread out on the comfortable double bed, she began to relax. This wasn’t too bad. A few more gulps. She checked her phone, watched the buffering circle slowly rotate on her screen. Still no signal. Then she spotted a white card on the bedside table with the wifi code.

      When WhatsApp loaded up, she sent a message to her mum and Lori.

      I made it! The place is perfect. No phone reception, but that suits me. Looking forward to lots of long walks and feeling better already.

      Obviously neither of them wanted to speak to her anyway, but at least they couldn’t complain that she’d left them worrying.

      Her phone dinged with a message. Henry Laughton.

      I hope you have arrived safely at The Guesthouse and had a good journey. A hearty welcome from all of us at Preserve the Past.

      Do contact me with any problems or queries and I’ll arrange for someone to deal with them.

      You should find toiletries and tea/coffee etc in your room, but there are further supplies in the kitchen. Take whatever you need.

      Enjoy your stay.

      She swallowed the rest of her vodka and tapped out a reply. Aimed for the right passive-aggressive tone. She had been very surprised about the lack of road access to the property and felt this should have been made clearer on the website. Her clothes and shoes were ruined. There was nothing to be done about it, of course, but she thought it might help to have some feedback for future guests. She hit send.

      For the first time in ages she was hungry, so she pulled on thick socks and looked out into the corridor. Hesitated for a minute or two, listening. Not a sound, except her own breathing and the gentle ticking of a clock somewhere. Then she forced herself along to the top of the stairs and leaned over the balustrade to peer into the hall below. Next to the main door someone had left some wellies and a pair of walking boots. Other guests must have arrived, because she could hear the comforting hum of voices downstairs.

      She padded down. Put a smile on her face, pulled out a stick of gum from her pocket to mask the smell of booze. She had chewed a lot of the stuff recently, whenever she was at home. The voices were coming from a big door at the back and to the right of the stairs. A dark tapestry, showing some kind of hunting scene, hung on the wall beside it. Pushing it open she found herself in a huge country kitchen.

      Seated at the massive oak table, fiddling with a phone, was a guy who looked about her own age. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed as he flashed a white smile.

      ‘Hello. Good to see you. Come in, come in.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘I’m Mohammad – Mo – and that’s my dad, Sandeep.’

      He nodded to an elderly man standing in the corner. Hannah took Mo’s hand and tried not to think about the awkward handshake at the end of her most recent disaster of an interview.

      When Sandeep also stretched out his hand she could see the likeness. But while Mo was smiling, his father looked unhappy, angry even. He was holding a cloth and seemed to be cleaning the warm Aga.

      ‘So, you’re not the hosts?’ Hannah asked.

      Mo laughed. ‘I wish. No, my dad’s just a cleaning fanatic.’ He turned to Sandeep. ‘Come on, Dad, give it a rest. This is meant to be a holiday.’ But his father ignored him.

      ‘How long have you been here?’ Hannah thought of the shadow at the window when she first arrived.

      ‘About half an hour. And you?’

      ‘An hour or so I think.’ So it couldn’t have been them. ‘Had a proper nightmare walking all the way from the road.’

      Hannah went to the fridge. Milk, cheese, butter. Some cold meats, lots of vegetables, orange and apple juice. But no wine. She sighed. ‘I’m surprised the host didn’t warn us about the trek across that bog. My new trainers are ruined.’

      Mo looked down at her socks. ‘Me and Dad like to walk, but yeah, it was a long way.’

      An old-fashioned coffee maker started to steam on the Aga. Sandeep filled two mugs with coffee and pushed them towards her without a word. His eyes were clouded. With annoyance, anger, or something else, she couldn’t guess. She sat beside Mo and passed him a coffee, all the time aware of Sandeep stooped in the corner, wiping the worktops, fussing with the Aga again.

      Mo blew on the mug and took a sip. ‘For a while we thought we might be the only guests, stuck out here on our own. It’s nice to have company.’

      He smiled at her across the table. It was a shy smile, but very warm. ‘So what brings you all the way out here?’

      It was too direct, although he