Benjamin Stevenson meets Nine Perfect Strangers in a story about writerly ambition, self-discovery and – of course – revenge. Sharp, fresh, bold, thrilling and gothic – gripping suspense from a spectacular new Australian talent.
An opportunity a writer would die for …
Desley Barron is ready to prove her doubters, and herself, wrong about her flagging writing career. She’s won a spot at an exclusive writing retreat in the Blue Mountains. Only instead of feeling creative, Desley finds her insecurity increases while the ghost stories about the house have her jumping at shadows.
This secluded house is the last place anyone will think to look for high-profile author Colette Halifax, which is perfect as she hides from a looming scandal. Unfortunately, someone here is threatening to ruin the one part of her life that isn’t already a shambles.
Meanwhile, Maia McKenzie has plans that don’t involve writing at all. She’s schemed to ensure the one person she wants to see is here – the man who almost killed her mother.
All have a secret. All will do anything to keep it hidden. And they’re not alone. The retreat is perched on the edge of a forest steeped in the horrors of Australia’s worst serial killer – and no one knows just who is watching.
When a storm unleashes its fury and they’re trapped, a body is left in the snow … and any one of them could be next.
The Blue Mountain Herald
Police have sealed off a section of the Blackheath area of the Blue Mountains National Park, including the grounds of Thorne House, after a body was discovered on the track to Govetts Leap.
This comes on the back of reports that police were called to Thorne House, now a writers house called Rhamnusia, to investigate the suspicious deaths of two as yet unnamed individuals, believed to have been staying at the house.
Detective Sergeant Michael Tomlinson said today, ‘We cannot reveal the identity until next of kin have been notified. However, we can confirm that the police force have cordoned off part of the area near Thorne House, while we undertake further investigations, after two people were found deceased.’
Police were unwilling to confirm if and how the three deaths are related.
Locals told The Sydney Informer that they’re not surprised.
The property, set on the edge of the state forest where Australia’s most vicious serial killer, Byron Jackovic, hunted his victims, is the site of the tragic passing of the Thorne family, and is widely believed by the people of the town to be haunted.
A resident, who wishes to remain anonymous, said, ‘The locals won’t go anywhere near it. Too much bad luck. It’s not right, what went on up there. It’s not right.’
Day One
Desley
The taxi pulls to a stop at the side of the road. Overgrown trees crouch over a faded sign:
RHAMNUSIA. WRITERS HOUSE.
‘There you go, love. Up there.’
Desley squints. The taxi’s window is grimy and paints everything with a ghostly hue. The driveway is long, winding, and covered in gravel. She sighs. Her suitcase has a dicky wheel, and of course she’s over-packed. She can’t even pack a bag for a week without messing up.
‘How do I get to the house?’ Her voice trembles.
The driver’s eyes meet hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘You’ll have to walk. I don’t go up there, love.’
At least the rain has stopped, although the sky is black with threat.
I should make him take me all the way. I should say, drive me up. I don’t want to walk. They’re only words. I will ask him to continue up the driveway.
But her body refuses. Weak, she chastises herself as she taps her card against the machine he offers.
‘Thanks so much,’ she says and immediately hates herself.
He lurches out of the taxi, keeping his face averted from the driveway, and dumps her lurid pink suitcase on the ground. Desley blows on her hands. It’s far colder than she’d imagined it would be. The weather forecast on her phone had displayed a little snowflake at the end of her week here. She’d shown her daughters and promised to send photos if it snowed. Queenslanders through and through, they’d squealed with delight at the idea of it. Their experience of winter was wearing tights under their school dresses for two weeks in July. Desley had bought this jacket online especially for this trip to the Blue Mountains.
‘Good luck, love. Watch out for that ghost,’ the driver calls as he leaps back in the car. He’s U-turned and sped up the road before Desley can respond.
Once she’d given him the address, he hadn’t stopped regaling Desley with ghost stories of the house. Now, her overactive imagination has got the better of her.
‘The locals won’t go near it,’ the driver had said. ‘That’s why the Council of the Arts turned it into a writers house. Couldn’t pay any of us to live in it. The whole family. Dead.’
Desley had smiled politely.
She doesn’t believe in ghosts. She’s married. She knows there are far worse things to endure than something that goes bump in the night.
Her driver had cleared his throat as his eyes held hers in the greasy rear-vision mirror. ‘Not to mention all that Jackovic stuff.’
Desley hadn’t been able to reply, her mouth drying unpleasantly at the mere mention of the name.
She chews her lower lip as she gazes around. The air is crisp in the way that only country air can be. Although only a twenty-minute drive from the train station, she is standing on the edge of a velvety dark forest in what feels like the middle of nowhere.
No one to hear you scream.
Silly, she scolds herself, as she peers into the gloom of the driveway.
A wind-gnarled bloodwood tree hangs low over the entrance, its branches limp like a snapped spine. The gravel snakes into the murky darkness, shadowed either side by the still trees.
One week.
She inhales and practises the technique her counsellor taught her. She can smell wood smoke in the cool air. She can feel the rough edge of her nail where she’d chewed it during the flight. She can see … a dead crow, its broken wing jutting against the gutter.
As she glances away, a familiar feeling of panic tears through her. Her hand is cold as she presses it to her forehead.
One week.
She can do it.
Only seven days. Not long enough for anyone to find out she doesn’t belong.
Clutching the handle of her suitcase, she drags it towards the path. The trees stretch their long bony fingers towards her. Almost as if warning her. Turn back, they urge.
Her heart trips in her chest.
If only her writing was as creative as her imagination.
Fat, foolish Desley, full of fancies.
The air in the driveway is dank; the smells are fertile, lush, mossy.
She turns the corner, and the house erupts from the undergrowth. The mullioned windows blink in the fading light. It’s a two-storey Federation-style house. Not exactly beautiful, although it may have been once. A balcony with chipped wrought-iron railings wraps around the top floor.
It has an air about it of years of neglect and cheap repairs.
A rotten tree stump lies across the courtyard, ancient moss-stained tiles its final resting place. An iron outdoor table stoops forlornly in the corner.
It isn’t the elegant property she’d imagined when she had received the email informing her she’d won a coveted spot at Australia’s most prestigious writers house.
The online photos showed a lonely old building, one that looked as if it was slipping closer and closer to the trees standing between it and the cliff’s edge. But seeing it now, it’s as though the forest is reclaiming the house. As if the trees are creeping closer, their branches smothering the light, casting a sickly green glow over everything.
She shakes her head. Scott’s right: she’s always looking for problems instead of solutions.
It’s winter, and this is a not-for-profit writers house, not a five-star hotel. She is here to write, not go to spa treatments and take long, leisurely breakfasts outside. Not that she’s ever done those things.
A compact wooden cabin stands sentry at the top of the driveway, directly across from the house. The wood is unpainted, raw. On a sign on the door, red writing announces:
OFFICE.
And underneath in thick black text:
DO NOT KNOCK.
Desley stops and sucks in air. The image of the broken crow flashes through her mind. The front wall of the office is tinted glass, and in it she sees the reflection of a red-faced, sweaty woman. She swipes a hand along her hair. No matter what the event, how much effort she puts in, how much preparation, she always ends up looking dreadful. The chaos of her mind always seeps to the surface.
The quilted waterproof jacket that looked so stylish online makes her look like a marshmallow. She heaves a sigh.
The welcome email said meals are provided. Small portions, hopefully. The nearest shop is a ten-minute car journey away. She can’t just pop out and grab a bag of chips whenever she fancies it. This week is about writing, of course, but losing weight would be a bonus. She’s been promising to start a diet for months but can never seem to find the right time to begin.
A silhouette flashes in the glass and Desley shrieks.
She stares, rooted to the spot, her hand rising and falling on her chest, clutching her Saint Christopher medallion.
The shadow moves and comes into focus and Desley releases a shaky laugh. It’s a person.
Of course it is, idiot.
Desley smiles, but the face doesn’t smile back.
‘Can I help you?’
Desley whirls to face the accusing voice at her back. A woman has stuck her head out from the door of the main house, but her body remains inside, so she appears to be nothing more than a floating head.
‘I’m Desley. I’m checking in today?’ Why does she frame everything as a question? Idiot.
The woman snaps the door shut.
Desley turns back to the glass wall of the office, but the other face is gone. Her chest heats. These are the moments that flatten her. The moments when everyone else seems to know what to do, the next move to make. Is she supposed to follow the woman inside or does she wait at the office? The sign, at least, has informed her she isn’t to knock, but what next?
A face flashes in one of the windows, gone as quickly as it appeared. Desley sucks in a shuddering breath. Another writer, of course. Surely. Definitely not the ghost the cab driver had spoken about. That’s just silly. But still her heart beats faster.
The prickle of tears stings her eyes.
Breathe, breathe. Don’t lose it yet. One thing I can hear, one thing I can smell, one thing I can—
‘Name?’
‘Gilchrist hooked me good and proper. Creepy closed-in setting? Enough secrets and suspense to fill a body bag? Twisty narratives and the twisted psyches of we writers who weave them? Yes, don’t mind if I do! I could check out from The Final Chapter any time I liked, but I could never leave. What a cracking mystery debut!’ Trent Dalton
‘A pacy and unpredictable thriller, dripping with atmosphere and sharp observations. With an eerie isolated house and the deteriorating relationships between a cast of distinct and nuanced characters, each with their own agenda, the stage is set for a page-turning, chill-inducing gallop to the finish line.’ – Jo Dixon, author of A Shadow at the Door and The House of Now and Then
‘This story of writers-behaving-badly on a deadly retreat from hell gripped me from the start with its intensely dramatic setting and ghostly goings on. Gilchrist is a bold and confident new voice in the world of gothic fiction – her prose leaps off the page like the storms that plague the retreat. Strap yourself in for a thrilling ride.’ – Cassie Hamer, author of The Stranger at the Table
‘Deviously clever and wickedly sharp – this is one writer’s retreat you’ll be glad you only visited on the page.’ – Kylie Orr, Australian author of The Eleventh Floor