Archive of Our Own

“Seriously?”

Hannah tipped her head back against her desk chair, savouring the moment. “No that’s brilliant, I’m so grateful… ah, thanks so much,” she added happily. “Yes, Mondays and Wednesdays work fine for me, there’s that one week in May where I’m -”, she paused, nodding slightly. “Yes, I’ll put it on the doodle poll. Great… yes, fantastic. I’ll see you next week!”

Smiling, Hannah disconnected the call. She swung in her chair for a moment, allowing herself a little giddiness as she wriggled her toes and stretched back against the headrest. Suddenly it was too much for her, and she stood up decisively, opening her study door and walking to the top of the staircase.

She could hear her mother downstairs, the radio on in the low soft comfortable burr of the BBC. Hannah waited a moment to compose herself, then grabbed one of her empty mugs from her desk and brought it downstairs with her to the kitchen.

“I’m making a cup of tea,” she offered, switching on the kettle. “Do you want one?”

“Thanks love, I’m fine,” said Marion distractedly, peering at her phone. “Remember to use a coaster.”

“Mm,” agreed Hannah, non-committal. “Guess what?” she asked, unable to quite keep the excitement from her voice.

Marion didn’t reply. “This court booking system is a bit of a mess,” she said disapprovingly, “there’s never a spare one when you need it, all these tech-savvy people book them up immediately.”

“New tennis courts are released at 8am,” reminded Hannah, taking the milk out of the fridge. “You should set a timer. Mum,” she added meaningfully. “I just got a call from the director. I got the part!”

Marion looked up. “The part?”

“Eleanor,” replied Hannah, stressing the word a little.

“Ah, well, well done,” Marion replied, returning to her phone. Then as an afterthought, she looked up. “And what’s the play you’re doing?”

Hannah couldn’t help it - she beamed. “Haunting of Hill House, Mum,” she said. “I’m Nell.”

–

“And as per the schedule,” the director advised, officiously tapping the document with his finger to illustrate, “we’ll be in the Blue room for most of our rehearsals, excepting the 7th and 21st, when we’ll abscond to the Terrace Room. We’ll be aiming for books down by the end of June, though, naturally this may be earlier for some of us.”

Hannah nodded along, thumbing through her script. Keen for the first day of rehearsal, she’d already highlighted her lines. She’d had to borrow the highlighter from her mother, who had looked askance at the volume of words, and the requisite ink needed to cover them. She’d very pointedly put new pens on the shopping list the next day, and Hannah had taken pleasure in purchasing the most expensive set she could find.

Next to her, Fred cleared his throat and Hannah looked up. She was the star of the play, she reminded herself formally, it behove her to pay attention.

“Cherry blossoms for the spring!” he was saying. “We’ll be able to source other props from the Wokingham Theatre, but if anyone has an old-looking chess set, do let me know. And as for the costumes -”

Hannah stifled a yawn. It was an unseasonably warm day for early Spring, and the air in the theatre room was close. If she tipped her head slightly she could see out of the long dormer window; there were people sprawled out on the grass outside, Hannah could just hear their laughter through the glazed barrier.

The production and all of its rehearsals would take place in South Meadow - once a sprawling country home, it had long since been renovated into an elegant community space. Classes were run every day of the week in improbable subjects such as stain-glass window making, and tap dance, competing against the attractions of the recital hall which housed a Steinway grand piano, and a full theatre with tired seats and expensive lighting boards. Outside in the spacious grounds, children ran around the hedgerow maze, and dogs and their walkers prowled around the woodlands, the paths by the lake to the fountain. Growing up in the area, South Meadow was a staple of life, with the dual consequence that it was always relied upon to be there, and never fully utilised, for its placid sense of stability. She’d moved away after school, work bringing her to London, and Peter keeping her there. Now that was over (“and such an expensive reception, too,” her mother had remonstrated remorsefully) Hannah found herself back - back to Bracknell, back to her mother’s house and her poster-marked bedroom, to the sunlit grounds of halls of South Meadow. It was a new beginning in Hannah’s life, to be sure - but there was also an undeniable retreat. Thank god she had the play, she considered. She could definitely use the ego boost.

It was a small cast, six actors in total - apart from the four core guests of Hill House, Ava and Ben doubled up to play both Mrs Montague and Arthur Parker, and the Danvers husband and wife team. The play script adaptation was a fairly straight retelling from the book; Hannah recognised snatches of dialogue which were lifted verbatim, and the structure continued on in a sensible, linear fashion. (Hannah had issues with plays that tried to switch back and forth in time too much; she found it a little pretentious, and often confusing.)

She knew their director Larson vaguely - he’d been around the Bracknell theatre world for years, and he’d stage managed a play that Hannah had been in in her teens. She remembered him to be pleasant but a little officious, an opinion which was not diminished by his continuing monologue on the set up of the play, the content of which had now drifted over to health and safety concerns and regulations. Luke Sanderson, the novel’s heir to Hill House, was presented as even more of a rake in the playscript than in the book, and was typecast completely by a newcomer called Joe, who’d swaggered around the stage winking lasciviously at their audition. Hannah knew Shivani (playing Theodora) vaguely - they were roughly the same age, but had gone to different schools and had only once crossed paths at a local schools debate contest. (Neither of their teams had succeeded to county level.) Dr Montague was played by Fred, a semi-retired doctor who had already mentioned his golfing handicap twice since she’d met him two weeks ago, and who possessed a languid, gravelly voice which Hannah thought would be very impressive in role. A small cast, but a good one, Hannah considered. And she, the lead! She suppressed a smile.

Larson was making wrapping up motions with his hands, and Hannah sat up a little straighter. “And now that we all understand each other,” beamed Larson, flourishing a little, “let us start with Act One, Scene Five!”

“Hey,” said Joe, giving her a lazy wink and a friendly squeeze of her arm as they finally rose to take their places for the opening scene. “Good to see you here. Not that I’m surprised,” he added, a touch more lasciviously than the situation called for - “you give good audition.”

“Back at you,” smiled Hannah. She assessed Joe to be about ten years her senior, and - from his manner towards her, and the other woman at the audition - an incurable flirt. Not that Hannah was judging, or minded - she liked people who could put people at ease, who were naturally conversational. And Hannah herself considered herself in no danger of getting emotionally entangled; winking, perma-tanned Joe was far from her type. But, she considered, as she gently brushed her arm alongside his - the attention could be fun.

“When we first meet her,” Shivani was asking, frowning seriously at her script. “Do you want Theodora to be nervous of Hill House, or more excited?”

“Let’s try it both ways!” encouraged Larson happily. “We have three months to get this right.”

Three months, Hannah thought, looking around the cluttered rehearsal space, with its scattered props and odd combinations of individuals. Should be fun.

–

Hannah was still thinking of Nell as she drove home that evening. “I am learning the pathways of the heart,” she murmured to herself. It was an odd line - stress on ‘learning’, she considered, or maybe ‘pathways’? At this point, Nell had been in Hill House for days, her world had already opened more than perhaps in the whole of her adult life. ‘Learning’ was apt, as was ‘pathways’ - but heart? What did you mean there, Nell, she wondered. Journeys end in lovers meeting, came the reply. It was always about love, for me.

“I am learning the pathways of the heart,” Hannah repeated as she looked right and put the indicator on, placing stress on the words in turn. “Or, “I am learning the pathways of the heart?” The second, she decided. Heart, after all, was important.

I will put on a white dress with lace on the trim, I will marry a man with a dark moustache and I will bake apple pie served with sour cream.

Hannah wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like apple pie, didn’t like baked fruit at all - preferred the crispness of a raw bite. She’d think about the line tomorrow, she decided, as she turned into the drive of her mother’s house, crunching delicately on the loose gravel. She was meeting with her solicitor the next day, and wanted to get up early to finish her sales report before she had to leave. Peter was fighting back on the split on the sale of the car, and Hannah was to come to her solicitor’s office tomorrow prepared to prove joint ownership.

The house was dark when she came in, and she moved without sound upstairs. Brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, she took stock of her reflection. There was no beauty there - as much as she’d like to pretend to it - but nose, mouth and eyes were all there, all in the right place. An average face, a serviceable one.

Hannah blinked. Serviceable? Odd use of the word. She must be tired. Hannah started to turn away from the mirror, but something gave her pause. Her reflection - pale, hair tied back in a ponytail - looked back, the same as always. But - must be a weird trick of the light. In the reflection of the mirror, Hannah could see that the corners of her mouth were turned up slightly, a tiny grin pulling up the corners of her cheeks, her eyes darkening with some unknown joke. But Hannah was sure - was quite completely sure - that she wasn’t smiling at all.

–

Work was busy for the next few days; one of her colleagues was on leave, and Hannah was obliged to pick up some of her tasks. (Slightly more than she considered fair, to be completely honest. Something to bring up at the annual review.) She kept her script by her bed, and got into the habit of reading it at night, murmuring the lines under her breath. She thought about Nell and the play often - particularly when Larson started a cast whatsapp group, and started spamming the group with articles he’d found on previous Haunting of Hill House productions and adaptations.

The next few rehearsals were slowly productive; Larson had a very clear vision of the play, and Hannah was mostly amenable to it. (Their only mild disagreement had been on the accent - Larson wanted a mild, babyish tone of voice, which Hannah thought a bit too on the nose.) Fred continued to drawl magnificently in his role of the doctor, and Joe continued to flirt extravagantly with everyone in the near vicinity. Shivani, too, was clearly feeling the effects of the cast’s good humour, was smiling and laughing at Fred’s ponderous jokes, and finding a brightness and levity in Theodora’s words that Nell genuinely admired.

Hannah wrinkled her nose. That she, Hannah, admired.

All in all, the play was turning into a very enjoyable hobby and Hannah - still reviewing with her solicitor weekly, and still sourcing receipts - was grateful for the distraction. Less so, at the following Monday’s rehearsal, where Larson started off with a speech.

“I do appreciate that we sometimes need a little levity,” Larson said stiffly, holding up his ripped-through copy of The Haunting of Hill House. “But sometimes jokes can be taken a little too far.”

The book was more than a little damaged; now that Larson was holding it up, Hannah could see that it was almost in two pieces, the spine thoroughly broken and pages coming loose in little arabesque sheets. Joe caught her eye, raising his eyebrows in amusement. Hannah meant to return the look, but found herself feeling awkward instead, a slight blush coming to her cheeks. She turned away slightly - when she looked up again, she saw Joe exchanging the same look with Shivani. She, eyebrow arched, returned it.

Larson was still talking. “Destruction of property,” he was saying, “will not be tolerated. I’m taking this as a badly-executed practical joke, but if anything happens further -”

Hannah felt absurdly guilty. Of course, she knew nothing about the damage to the book. Why would she? She felt her blush deepen. Was Larson looking at her more than the others - and there, did Fred glance in her direction? Hannah looked down at her hands, half expecting to see a tell-tale sliver of card underneath her fingernail, a papercut winding its way down her palm. They were clean, of course. Why wouldn’t they be? She hadn’t done anything.

Hill House, not sane.

And what, thought Hannah wearily, does that have to do with anything.

–

Part of the arrangement for staying at her mother’s whilst the divorce was being finalised, was that Hannah would cook two nights a week. Hannah had thought this arrangement odd when Marion first suggested it - her mother liked both cooking and her own rotating cast of meals - but Hannah came to realise that Marion liked having the insight into what Hannah chose to cook of an evening and - furthermore - liked the opportunity for gentle criticism.

“You are fond of your rice dishes, aren’t you,” Marion opined lightly, stirring her curry with her fork and a suspicious expression. “I wonder if so much of it is good for you, is all.”

“It’s a staple for many cultures Mum,” Hannah replied peaceably, “they all survive it quite well.”

“Mm,” returned Marion, “remind me to give you my recipe for lamb cutlets, I think you’ll find you like it.”

“I shall cook roasted lamb on Sundays, and wear my best hat to go to church,” Hannah said absently. “I will sing in the choir and walk home beneath the yew trees.”

Marion stared. “What?” she asked. “What’s this about church?”

“I will dust behind the bookshelves and polish up the silver teaspoons; when guests come over, I will receive them with a smile, and homemade ice cream made from real dairy.”

“Hannah,” Marion said slowly, “what are you talking about?”

Hannah blinked. What was she saying? Something about tea, and yew trees? “Um,” she said, looking down hard at her plate, “I don’t know.” She took a forkful and chewed. “It’s been a busy week,” she said. “I’ll have an early night.”

When she’d climbed upstairs to her bedroom, she found some of the words reverberating in her head. Ice cream made from real dairy. What else would it be made of, she thought irritatedly, thumping at her pillow.

They used to sell flavoured ice in cones, and call it ice cream. Shortages, you know. The war.

Hannah laid back in her bed. She could feel her heart thumping just a little faster, louder. Had she known that? She had the feeling that she didn’t - that she hadn’t known.

I am learning the pathways of the heart.

Hannah closed her eyes tight. She focused minutely on the rise and fall of her breathing, and schooled herself to think of nothing else, of nothing else at all.

–

“Hill House should very much feel like another character,” Larson was beaming, illustrating his point with much waving and windmilling of arms. “We need to create the illusion of space, of room and corridors and winding passageways -”

There was a noise from behind Hannah, and she turned to see Joe smothering a laugh with his hand. Shivani was next to him, her own face poker straight.

“- we’ll have props of course to recreate the idea of the different rooms, and naturally the prestige of South Meadow will assist with this sense of grandeur -”

The budget for the studio theatre was not large, and all cast members were encouraged to bring any ‘old world’ items that they had lying about, to help flesh out the set. Hannah didn’t think she had much to offer - she’d decluttered in the move, and her mother’s tastes tended towards the cosy rather than the grand.

“How are you getting along with Eleanor?” asked Fred, as they headed backstage, ready for their scene entrance.

Hannah felt flustered. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Oh, characterisation, you know,” Fred said lightly. “Dr Montague leans in more to a stereotype, but you’ve got a bit more to go on, with Eleanor.”

“Mm,” agreed Hannah. “Maybe more than I’d want.”

She became aware that this was a weird thing to say.

“I mean,” Hannah continued, rallying, “she’s had this completely closed-off upbringing, right? Barely interacted with anyone. But she’s quite attuned to people despite it, very aware of what they’re thinking and their motivations.”

“You think it’s part of her supernatural abilities?”

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t decide if it’s the house acting through her - how much agency she actually has. But she is good with people.”

She reads a lot.

“She reads a lot,” Hannah repeated absently. “Uh, well -” she dissembled, “I suppose she does, anyway. Did. In the book.”

Fred was nodding. “Quite,” he said kindly, then pointed meaningfully towards the stage. “Think that was your cue, there.”

Sure enough, Larson was calling for her.

“Sorry!” Hannah returned, and she stepped out on stage.

–

“How can he be challenging the downpayment?” Hannah snapped, exasperation giving her voice a higher register, a shrillness that she hated.

“The reasoning given here is increased earning potential,” the solicitor said, peering down at her notes. “But we can certainly return, if you feel it’s unfair.”

“Of course it’s unfair. I put down eighty percent of that deposit, I should get that back.”

The solicitor inclined her head diplomatically. “I’d suggest you leave yourself open to compromise. Peter has shown movement on the car, for example.”

“I should like to slit his throat,” spat Hannah. “I would slap him around the face until he cries.”

The solicitor stilled. Hannah raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh god,” she said, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that at all.”

The lawyer waved her hand. “Emotions are running high,” she said kindly. “I understand.”

But Hannah was still thinking about her outburst when she left the sleek office, feeling ungainly in her professional heels. She kicked them off when she got to the car, and slipped into her flats. What is going on with you, Han, she asked herself, raising a hand to her lips. She flicked her eyes to the driving mirror, then looked away. Then, she looked back again, curious. She looked the same as ever - and yet, somehow, felt that she was regarding a stranger. She touched her hair wonderingly. “Who are you?” she murmured.

Then, she realised the time, and jumped - starting her car up and getting into gear. She was going to be late for rehearsal.

“Because Hill House will be mine someday,” Joe was declaiming, an hour later in the Blue room. “With its untold treasures and its cushions? I am not gentle with a house, Nell, I may take a fit of restlessness and smash the sugar Easter egg, or shatter the little child hands or go stomping or shouting up and down the stairs striking at glued-glass lamps with a cane and slashing at the bosomy lady with the staircase on her head; I might -”

“You see? You do frighten her,” cut in Shivani, gesturing towards Hannah, a glimmer of humour in her voice.

“Hannah?” Larson called out from the audience seats, “you do need to look frightened here, or Theo’s line doesn’t make sense.”

“Ah,” said Hannah, flustered, of course. She put an expression on her face. Larson frowned. “Maybe a little less - absent?” he suggested.

Hannah wanted to cry. “Yes,” she said, as brightly as she could muster. “I’ll certainly try that.”

When rehearsal was over and the cast was all filing out, Hannah excused herself to visit the ladies room - less for necessities purposes, and more to avoid the end of evening small talk, and social niceties. She ran the tap and splashed cold water on her face. You need to relax, she told herself, watching her reflection closely in the mirror, the overhead lighting emphasising the shadows under her eyes.

Shortly after the separation, Hannah started seeing a therapist. “Speak to yourself as you would a loved one,” the smooth-toned woman had advised. “Be gentle with yourself.”

“You are safe,” Hannah murmured to herself, “you are loved.”

THUMP.

Hannah whirled around. The sound had come from outside the door; a kind of a thwack sound, soft and heavy, like a cloth-covered box falling over.

“Everything alright?” she called - to no answer.

THUMP.

Again, Hannah turned. “Are you -”

The lights went out. Hannah stifled a shriek, hand clasped over her mouth. She fumbled against the wall for a light switch, but found only smooth tiled wall beneath her fingers. The tiny frosted window to the outside let in no light, and the darkness was absolute. Shouldn’t there be some emergency lighting, Hannah reasoned, feeling her way in the blackness. She was conscious that her breath was quickening and her heart was beating faster, and tried to counter this with rational thought. She would find the light switch, and open the door. Failing that, she would simply open the door, find the handle in the dark. It was late, perhaps security had assumed the building was empty. It was an old structure, perhaps there was a fault.

Hannah’s grasping fingers found the door, navigated round to the door handle. She pulled. And - pulled.

Suddenly sweat started to break out on Hannah’s forehead, she grasped the handle hard with both hands, and heaved as hard as she could. The door remained implacable, immovable - silent and dark.

THUMP.

“Let me out,” Hannah ordered nonsensically, hauling at the door so hard she felt her fingers ache. She whipped her head around as she felt a breath by her cheek; there was no one else in the room, there could be no one else here - but why did she feel that there was? Why did she sense another presence?

Hannah dropped to the floor, the utter darkness forcing a perspective where the distance felt cavernous. She scrabbled with her fingers under the door, feeling for the gap between floor and door where she could remind herself - persuade herself - that there was space outside this room, that the thick darkness was impermanent, and temporal.

She met only smooth opaqueness, a blank surface unlined or unpitted by any gaps or revisions.

“I am always afraid of being alone,” Hannah heard herself say, voice rasped with panic. That’s not true, she wanted to add, I’m not, I’m not -

“If I could only surrender,” her voice came out again, plaintive this time, a little cloying -

THUMP.

Journeys end in lovers meeting; no one can catch me now.

THUMP.

And - the lights came back on.

Hannah flinched in the new light, pressing herself back against the door. She stayed a moment there on the floor, listening to her hammering heart, and the rapid fall of her breath. Slowly, she looked around the small bathroom. Clean, a little industrial - exactly as it had been. She raised her hands and saw white indentations where she’d pressed against the door handle.

The door! She scrambled to her feet and grasped for the door handle; it opened immediately, easy - a parody of reversals. Outside the bathroom was only the corridor, lined with the usual art and wayfinding. Hannah walked quickly, scanning the empty rooms, searching for - for what? Another person, a mess of collapsed furniture, a logical rational explanation for what had befallen.

The house kept its secrets.

Walking outside felt like walking into another film; the blandness and normality of the lamp-lit car park felt garishly at odds with her heightened, jumpy feelings of the previous - she checked her watch. Ten minutes? It couldn’t possibly be. She checked again. Nine fifty two, about twelve minutes since rehearsal broke up.

She turned the corner towards her car, and heard laughter. She looked across, to see Joe and Shivani talking together, illuminated by the overhead lamplight, and the pinprick lights of their cigarettes. Hannah didn’t know that they smoked.

“Hey,” Hannah called, joining them at a run. “Were you just in there? By the bathroom?”

Joe stared, nonplussed. Shivani giggled, a low gurgle in her throat. She looked happy, was wearing that satisfied look of a woman confident of her own attraction. Her body was turned inwards, angled towards Joe.

“Are you bringing too much of Hill House home with you, Han?” Shivani asked, archy.

Joe gestured towards their cigarettes. “We’ve been talking,” he explained, needlessly. He dropped his cigarette and stamped on the ember. “I should get off home,” he added. “Goodbye, ladies,” he called, bowing a little, then rising with a wink. “Until next time.”

Hannah watched him go, then turned to Shivani. “You really weren’t inside?” she asked, “you didn’t come back?”

Shivani tipped her head to one side. “Are you alright?”

Hannah ran a hand through her hair distractedly. She hadn’t realised she was biting her lip until she tasted blood on her tongue. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked.

Shivani raised an eyebrow in reply.

Hannah shrugged, embarrassed. “Just feeling weird.” She nodded awkwardly, and left for her car, digging in her bag for her keys.

Poor baby.

Hannah put the radio on, loud, and drove fast on the way home, exceeding the speed limit.

She had just gotten into bed that night, when she got a whatsapp message from Shivani - private, rather than on the group site. Hannah opened it, to find a link - no accompanying text - which opened to a web page entitled Paranormal History of Berkshire’s South Meadow.

Tomorrow, Hannah thought with a shiver, as she dropped her phone down. She’d deal with that another day.

–

Coming back to South Meadow left Hannah a little on edge. She’d snapped at her mother when she asked if she’d used up all the milk, and sent a terse email to her least favourite colleague, which caused a raised eyebrow when her line manager - cc’d - had read it. Now standing back at the grand entrance hall of the once stately house - Hannah wanted to run. How far could she get if she got in the car now, and just drove? Hours until she needed to stop for petrol, maybe up to Yorkshire. She could book a room at a cheap hotel, wake up in the morning to an unfamiliar countryside, make small talk with the guests and hotel staff, who knew nothing, nothing about her.

But - then what?

Hannah squared her shoulders, and walked through the front door.

“Children grew up here?” Hannah read, trying for incredulity but feeling that she fell short somewhere in confusion.

“I hope they went wading in the brook,” Shivani said, balancing her script on the back of her chair as she warmed her hands by the imaginary fire. “Poor little things. I hope someone let them run in that meadow and pick wildflowers.”

“Lovely,” commented Larson, scribbling on his own script copy. “Fred, I think that Dr Montague needs to be closer in for this scene, you’re a little way off where you are.”

Fred obediently moved.

Larson had stopped giving Hannah feedback for the time being, but instead looked at her with a hopeless, yearning expression that communicated clearly just how deeply disappointing he found Hannah’s performance. She took a deep breath and shook herself slightly. What is Nell feeling in this scene? Her mind made a mental block against the answer.

She listened dully while Fred gravely intoned the history of Hill House; then missed her cue for own line.

“Killed herself?” she asked, startled into action. “She had to kill herself?”

She saw Larson’s moue of disapproval. “I can do it more shocked, if you’d like,” she said, turning to him.

“We can try a few different things,” Larson said obliquely. “But for now let’s move on.”

Hannah felt depressed. She had a fair amount of ego attached to her acting abilities, and the awareness of her shortcomings in this area was disheartening. As the main character, she was almost always on stage - she could feel every scene she touched being leached of colour, of animation. Fred, Shivani and Joe were all doing great - Larson was fond of the word ‘chemistry’ and used it often to describe their interactions. “Good affectionate chemistry there,” he’d said approvingly when Fred and Joe played chess. “I could feel the chemistry!” he’d call, when Joe and Shivani joked together in the meadow of Hill House.

For Hannah, he was silent.

Even Joe had stopped flirting with her; the rebuff made her feel ugly, petulant. She felt herself awkward around men in a way that she’d never been before; a barrier closing between herself and them, their maleness. She watched Joe make eyes at Shivani instead, watched him put his hand on her arm, her shoulder. Causal, casual. But Hannah couldn’t help but notice, and it always made her sad.

–

The internet site contained the lurid mix of gossip and speculation that Hannah could have predicted, but it did still hold glimpses of continuity. There were several reports of cold spots, lighting flickers, odd sounds and smells. Mrs Argonsby of Egham reported that she’d been standing in the middle of the children’s art exhibit in the Green Room, when she’d had the definite and unmistakable sensation of being in the midst of a dinner party; she heard cutlery clattering on the plates, elegant dresses illuminated by fulsome candelabras - a man standing up to cheers, and giving a toast on the culmination of the war. Apparently she’d researched after the fact, and found a description of a party similar to this, taken place in 1815. In similar fashion, Harry P of Wokingham found himself one day, suddenly, in the old converted library of the east wing, where he’d supposed that just moments before he was walking his dog in the grounds outside. (Apparently the dog had been found safe and sound, lead and collar still on - Hannah had looked out for that detail.)

All in all - and Hannah did take all the information with a heavy pinch of salt, despite her own experiences there - it seemed that South Meadow had a reputation for the paranormal. Nothing very specific, no regular hauntings, just - oddities. Weirdness, spooky dealings, all centred around the building and grounds.

Hannah was a modern, educated woman who didn’t believe in ghosts. There were so many different explanations for her odd events - chiefly, an overactive imagination triggered by significant life changes. She was getting a divorce! That was routinely defined as one of the most stressful events that a person could live through. She’d moved back to her childhood home, leaving her familiar flat in London, and leaving the man she’d been cohabiting with for years to live with her mother, who was - in the most loving terms - a difficult person to be around. Hannah was acting in a play based on a ghost story - is it any wonder that she’d have ghosts on the brain? Or Eleanor, the character she was playing?

But, but - she sighed, and checked her phone. She hated that she still had doubts. And she also hated that it was time for rehearsal again.

“Remember to keep posting on social media!” Larson was nodding encouragingly at the assembled cast in the Terrace room, “we have just twenty-two tickets sold to date!” he added.

“Haven’t tickets only been live for four days?” whispered Hannah, turning towards Shivani.

Shivani grinned. “Director Larson counts the number of tickets sold every hour upon the hour.”

“He’ll set his alarm for two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock,” Hannah replied, smiling “- and every he’ll beat his pillow in frustration when the numbers haven’t changed.”

“As the star of his play,” Shivani returned reprovingly, “you should be with him in his hours of agony. Mopping his brow, tending to his sorrows.”

“When he calls out in the dead of night that he’s nervous about the ticket sales,” giggled Hannah, “I shall not be there.”

“When he collapses of dread at the empty seats on opening night,” murmured Shivani, “we shall let Joe flirt him back into sense and sanity.”

Hannah’s laugh was a little too loud for subterfuge, and she earned another disapproving look from Larson. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

The rehearsal went downhill from there, as Hannah drifted through her lines, alternatively diffident and confused. She felt anger in odd bursts, and she held on to the sensation when it came, asking why? How? Where did you come from? Her therapist had told her to feel her feelings, but she didn’t understand these. They didn’t feel like her.

It’s normal to think about the character that you’re playing, Hannah told herself firmly, packing up her bag to go home, dodging an invitation of a drink from Joe and nodding assent to Larson and his request to bring a woollen shawl to the next rehearsal. It’s normal to think about Eleanor.

But - she thought, walking across the car park, and feeling the shadow of the great house bear down on her - I don’t feel well at all.

–

Hannah was walking through the supermarket with Peter. “It’s good we’re back together,” he said, picking up a bag of rice. “It’s much more efficient to cook for two.”

“Mm,” Hannah agreed. She was not happy about being together with Peter, but supposed that she must have agreed to it. He took her hand, and the supermarket turned to their living room around them as he led her to their sofa. “Hannah must not use the laundry room while the baby is sleeping,” he said seriously.

Hannah did not have a baby. She looked around, and saw it there, fat and pink and faintly disgusting.

“Give Aunt a hug,” instructed Peter to the baby, except he was not Peter anymore, but was now a heavyset blonde man, with big shoulders and wet lips, like a fish.

“Hannah shall hold her tongue,” said a woman from behind her. She was pretty in a tense way, and had thick hair pulled back in a clip. “She will not speak this way around the children.

Hannah started to protest, “I never did anything!” she said.

“I never did anything,” a mocking voice replied.

“I never - I never!” Hannah cried.

“Eleanor must sit in her room without supper, she will hardly deserve it after her behaviour today.”

I will cut you into pieces with a knife from the butchers; I will crack your head on the pavement and watch the brains pool outside. I should like to do all this to you, and I should not let it trouble me for a moment. I will watch you die. I will watch you die.

Hannah woke up with a gasp. She felt cold sweat on her forehead, and wiped it away with a shaking hand. That was not my dream, she thought fiercely - the immediacy of the aftermath giving her certainty. That was not my life.

She groped for her hoodie and pulled it on, then slipped out of her room and downstairs as fast and as silently as she could, still feeling her heart thudding in her chest, palms soft and sweaty with dread.

“ENOUGH!” Hannah yelled, running into the wooded copse beside the house. She felt her words ricocheting off the silent houses, the windless trees. “Enough,” she said, more quietly. “Please.” And now, silently. Tell me what you are.

Ah, came the voice, but you already know.

I’m going insane, thought Hannah, running a finger through her hair, pulling out a leaf and stray bits of twig.

Insanity is a part of life, but I don’t think you’re there yet.

Please, begged Hannah, just tell me.

You already know.

Do I?

Yes, silly. You know.

Say it, please.

Eleanor.

Nell.

Eleanor Nellie Nell. Help Eleanor Come Home.

You know me.

Hannah crossed her arms over her chest. She did know. She was so very, deeply tired of pretending that she didn’t know.

Hello Nell, she thought.

Hello.

–

Acknowledging it was both more comforting and terrifying at the same time. What does this mean about the book? Hannah wondered as she wheeled the bins out, placing them carefully at the driveway so it wouldn’t impede the cars. Did the events in Haunting of Hill House really happen?

Of course they did, Nell replied stiffly. I was there.

Perhaps books exist in different dimensions, and our separate realities have crossed over at this point.

Hannah felt Nell’s boredom.

What? She defended, I’m trying to think of a rational solution.

Mm, sighed Nell. How very boring of you.

But I -

I live and breathe and laugh and cry; I will walk down the path to the shop on the corner and I will buy kippers for breakfast. I am because I am - I must be.

Hannah disliked kippers.

Then you, returned Nell sweetly, do not have to eat them.

Hannah slammed the gate shut with a bang. This is going to be very complicated, she thought.

Journeys end in lovers meeting, replied Nell. Have a little faith.

–

Hannah was not quite convinced that she was not going crazy. Once acknowledged, Nell spoke to Hannah more frequently, and with more clarity. Sitting in her study, leaning back against her chair and watching charts move across her screen (she was in a meeting about ticket prices - or was it membership?) she could feel across the edges of her mind where her own self was eroding, where Nell had taken sway. It felt cramped in her head - she took a sip of water.

I never had a job, said Nell dreamily, I would have liked one like this, I think.

You were a carer, Hannah replied, leaning forward to read the title of a graph. That’s a job.

That’s being a daughter, Nell responded firmly.

Hannah’s phone flashed up with a new notification, and she leaned over to check it. A new whatsapp message to the Haunting of Hill House group had been posted by Larson, starting with the line:

I am very disappointed to say that there has been a vicious…

Hannah sat up straighter and clicked on the notification. She read it a couple times before she took it in, the word jumping out at her at odd times. Vandalism, repeated Nell excitedly, echoing the words in her mind. Deliberate destruction. Very poor taste. Last warning.

Someone had broken into the theatre. They’d taken a can of white paint, and daubed letters on the panelled wood walls; the same words, the same phrase repeated over and over again.

Larson had attached a photo, and Hannah zoomed in on her screen, heart beating fast in her chest.

STAY HOME ELEANOR STAY HOME
STAY HOME ELEANOR STAY HOME
STAY HOME ELEANOR STAY HOME
STAY HOME ELEANOR STAY HOME
STAY HOME ELEANOR STAY HOME…

… on and on and on.

Hannah closed her eyes, then opened them again. The image was still there, the angry white letters.

White, she thought dazedly. The chalk.

Foul, filthy house.

Hannah left her study, declining to care that she was still logged in to the teams meeting. Marion was at her aerobics class, and the rest of the house felt less dense, less suffocating. Hannah put on the kettle (mostly out of instinct) and leaned back against the counter, heart racing.

Was this you, Nell? she asked.

What I want in all this world is peace, she replied, a little slyly.

Tell me, begged Hannah.

A quiet spot to lie and think, a quiet spot among the flowers -

This is serious, Hannah warned. Have you done this?

A quiet spot among the flowers, where I can dream and tell myself sweet stories.

The kettle boiled, and Hannah placed a tea mag in her mug. “You terrify me,” she said out loud.

Don’t be silly, Nell replied softly. It wasn’t me.

Did Hannah believe that? She wasn’t sure.

Nell sniffed. You know I can hear you.

What I wouldn’t give, thought Hannah grimly, drowning the tea bag in one long steaming pour, for a little privacy.

–

You are a very silly baby, Eleanor.

Hannah woke up to fragments of dreams which weren’t her own; she wiped a strand of hair from her face and felt momentarily that it was thicker, wilder than her own. She sat up against her pillow, blinking, and ran a hand through her hair again. A bit tangled, but her own fine hair again.

“Nell,” Hannah groaned aloud, sinking back down into bed. “So early?”

I used to look out of the window and wish I were elsewhere; wish so hard that I’d break and shatter.

“Oh,” Hannah yawned.

Today, Nell continued, I will be grateful to you for this time.

“Fine,” Hannah grumbled, checking her phone, “you do that.”

There was another rehearsal tonight. Hannah felt that her life now revolved around them; the in-betweens of her work and friends and legal battles were muted, vague impressions of her sense when she was in South Meadow. Which would make sense if she were her most vibrant self there, but she actually wasn’t - she felt as confused and beleaguered and out of place at rehearsals as she did in most other aspects of her life at the moment. But - she dreamed of South Meadow, she caught herself detouring on journeys home so she could drive by the park gates. She brought it up in conversation more than she needed to, found herself doodling the tall windows, the northern gables. When she drove to rehearsal, she felt her heart race and her breathing quicken in excitement, and a sense of pure satisfaction when she finally caught the first glimpse of the house beyond.

She blamed Nell.

In the aftermath of the white painted letters, Larson had solemnly told the cast that any more ‘practical jokes’ would cause the immediate cessation of the production. He looked sad and formal, like a grave owl, and Hannah felt like laughing. She knew that Larson suspected her, knew that she was acting odd - but, she was odd. I have a fictional character inside my head, she thought, who controls me at will. That is the definition of odd.

Journeys end in lovers meeting, Nell said. You don’t know where you’re going yet.

Despite (or maybe because) of the accidents befalling the cast, tickets were selling well. (Shivani had shot an amused glance at Hannah when he’d announced this last week, giving her a sudden flare of desire that made Hannah uncomfortable.) Though still six weeks away from their performance run, a feeling was starting - an air of excitement now, a nervousness to all proceedings.

“I love decorating myself,” Shivani said, stretching out her fingers and tipping her head to the side to admire them. “I’d like to paint myself all over.”

Hannah did not know her lines yet. “Gold paint,” she replied, glancing down at her script, then up again at Shivani.

“Nail polish and perfume and bath salts,” Shivani said dreamily. “Mascara. You don’t think half enough of such things, Eleanor.”

“No time.”

“Well,” retorted Shivani, a little briskly, “by the time I’m through with you, you will be a different person.” She laughed suddenly, brightly. “I think I will put red polish on your toes.”

“That’s great,” interjected Larson, nodding fervently. “Good job,” he said, looking at Shivani. “Maybe a touch more engagement?” he turned to Hannah tentatively, “we want to feel that there’s a relationship there.”

“Ooh,” Shivani snickered, “relationship.”

“Yes,” said Larson brightly, looking pleased at the natural segway. “And on that point, I do think that we can choose to lean in to some of the subtext of the play, regarding Nell and Theo’s attraction.”

Hannah could tell that he’d thought a lot about his wording. Must be sensitive, musn’t push, musn’t seem excited about the prospect of a same sex female relationship on stage, in case his motives were queried. Very well done Larson, Hannah thought drily. Ten out of ten.

“So,” Larson continued bravely, “if you feel that it would be natural to give a caress, or embrace at this point -” he trailed off.

Shivani was nodding. “Sure,” she said. She stretched out a hand to stroke Hannah’s arm, who fought the urge to jump. Ridiculously, she felt herself blush again, and moved slightly away, rustling her script papers.

“Regardless of what you chose,” Larson added, looking pointedly at Hannah, “a little more emotional engagement, please.”

Hannah fought the urge to laugh.

–

Theo was wearing a red jumper - no, it was ruby really, it flashed and shimmered in the light like a trembling jewel. She moved, sinuous, and the edge of the scarlet jumper slipped down her shoulder, exposing soft brown collar bone, delicate bones picked out underneath a layer of satin skin. It was Shivani, Hannah realised, but she was also Theo too, and she was dancing and swaying and slowly - achingly, heart-breakingly slowly - removing her clothes.

Hannah woke with a gasp, visions of Shivani’s hair and skin and smile still permeated on her brain. She thumped her pillow in frustration. That was not my dream, she accused.

Could have been, replied Nell, petulant.

You didn’t touch her, in the dream, observed Hannah. Just watched.

So?

Hannah made a shrugging motion in her mind. You touched each other in the book, held hands all the time, call each other pet names -

Stop it.

You wanted to live with her, Hannah argued. You told her that you’d stay with her forever and -

Hannah gasped. She felt herself dip, submerge in her own head. Still lying in bed, still flat against the mattress she felt herself fall, dissipate, reform herself.

When she struggled back to subconscious, it was light outside.

“Did you do that?” she asked aloud, gasping breath as a drowning woman.

Nell’s voice was firm. I don’t like you talking that way. It’s dirty, horrid.

“You fucking psycho,” swore Hannah, massaging her throat, “it’s not dirty at all, being gay is normal. And what the hell did you just do to me?” she demanded. “That was awful.”

I can do that whenever I like, Nell said, with a hint of pride. I can lock you in the dungeon if it pleases me, so mind your tongue.

“Fucking psycho,” repeated Hannah, then “Nothing, mum,” as she heard Marion make enquiring noises outside her door. “Just talking to myself,” she called.

Come on, Hannah said to Nell irritatedly, pulling on her slippers. Time to get up.

–

Hannah came back home the next day to muffled thumping. She stilled on the welcome mat, keys still in hand as she slowly closed the front door behind her.

“Mum?” she called, keeping her keys between her fingers as she walked upstairs, following the source of the noise. The hallway was free of strange people or odd phenomena, but there was again thump from the closed door of her mother’s bedroom. Which had a chair placed in front of it, jamming the door handle.

“Let me OUT!”

It was her mother’s voice, coming from behind the door. Hannah walked gingerly forwards.

“Mum?” she asked again, confused.

Marion shouted, sounding apoplectic with rage behind her bedroom door. “For the LOVE of CHRIST let me OUT OF HERE.” There was another thump, which Hannah now diagnosed as her mother’s hand slamming against the door.

“Yes, yes,” Hannah said, pulling the chair out of the door’s way and pushing it back against the wall. Immediately Marion barrelled through the door.

“What do you think you were doing,” she hissed, anger blotching her face and shaking her body. “I was in there for hours.”

“Mum,” said Hannah weakly, “it wasn’t me, I didn’t know.” She reached an arm out to Marion, but she backed away, glaring. “Are you okay?” Hannah asked.

Marion shook her head. “No,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height, and gripping the bannister so hard her hands went white. “I am not okay.”

She swept downstairs. Hannah leaned over the bannister just to see Marion take her keys and disappear out the front door. Hannah sighed, and slumped down in the hallway.

Was that you? she asked.

Maybe, replied Nell.

It was, wasn’t it.

Yes, admitted Nell. I don’t like her.

Hannah felt anger now. Don’t do that again.

Or what?

I have no control, thought Hannah wildly. No power at all.

Oh, don’t pout, baby, returned Nell. You’ve had your body for thirty years, my life has never been my own.

That doesn’t mean that I owe you mine. Hannah was surprised at how gentle she felt towards Nell. There was fear there too, but compassion always. It’s not fair, Nell, she thought quietly. It’s really not fair.

Nell was silent for a moment. Hannah could feel the tension building in her head as the thoughts swirled and compressed.

Dear heart, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.

–

Hannah was noticing women more. She realised in the supermarket that her gaze lingered on the bare arms of the woman picking up loose apples in the fruit aisle. She felt conscious of the clear jawline of the new temp at the office; the generous cleavage of the girl in her pilates class, wearing tight lycra and a piercing in her belly button.

Knock it off, Hannah said severely to Nell, washing her face in front of the mirror before bedtime. These are not my thoughts.

Are you sure about that? Nell replied, a little petulantly. She could be coy, Hannah knew, about her sexuality. Understandable, but given that they were currently sharing a body, something that they should certainly be honest about.

I admire women, Nell mused, I like the way they move and laugh. Men lack poetry.

Not all men, considered Hannah, thinking of her soon to be ex husband, who had poetry in spades, but rather a lack of follow-through and commitment.

I want so many things. I lie awake and I dream of the cup of stars and the velvet dressing gown and the love and heat and the tenderness of a touch. I see other people and it hurts, Hannah, it hurts. And I want, I want -

In the mirror, Hannah watched her face grow pale, her hair darken and her eyes grow starving wide.

“I want everything,” whispered Hannah-Nell. “Everything.”

–

When Nell thought about her death, she thought of fire. There was a moment - quick! Tiny burst of time - between the impact of the car and her collapse of consciousness. Like the hiss and spark just before a flame ignites. She hadn’t wanted to die; there were picnics in life, and red sweaters and coffee and Theo’s warm hand - but ah, to go back to the child’s room in her sister’s house, that was truly another death. Slow drowning, Nell mused. All in all, she preferred the fire.

She became aware that she was at South Meadow. She blinked Hannah’s eyes, and took in the summer scene around her. Families splayed out on the lawn, watching the children run around the trees, friends drinking plastic cups of tea and giggling, laughing. Several of the men weren’t wearing shirts, and Nell struggled not to stare. Several of the women weren’t wearing much more, and Nell struggled harder.

Hannah would definitely complain about this submersion of her consciousness, but Nell wriggled her borrowed toes in their yellow shoes, and decided she didn’t care. She walked past the front lawn and climbed the steps to the main entrance. Pausing momentarily she enjoyed the feel of the warmth to coolness, as she entered the temperature controlled building. The world had moved on in so many strange ways - but this, Nell considered, shifting Hannah’s hair from one side of her shoulder to the other (it was so fine! And so much more manageable than her own!) - was an improvement.

She lingered in the entrance hall for a moment, then turned - a child was sitting on the steps of the staircase, tying his shoelace over and over. She watched him for a moment, then moved forwards and helped him.

“Rabbit goes through the hutch,” she said, “and out of the den.” She pulled on the shoelace end. “All better?”

The little boy pulled the lace out again. “You’re breaking the rules,” he said solemnly to Nell. “Shouldn’t be doing this.”

Nell smiled. “I was invited,” she said benevolently.

She continued walking up the stairs, then paused and looked back. The boy, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

As soon as Nell turned the corner to the rehearsal room corridor, she heard noises.

“There you are,” said the little harassed director, as Nell stepped through the door. “If you’re going to be late,” he admonished, “please remember to post on the group.”

Nell nodded vaguely. “I’ll never be late again.”

“We’re working on Act Two Scene Three at the moment,” said Shivani, smiling prettily at Nell. “Prepare to be excluded, baby, Luke and I are going to be terribly mean to you.”

Joe chuckled, putting a proprietary hand on Shivani’s wrist. “We’re back here Shiv,” he said. “Going from the line about the garden.”

Nell drifted into place, then waited. Hearing the dramatisation of the final days of her life had been odd, uncomfortable, funny and enraging in turn. There was something honorific in the retelling which made Nell proud - that was me! I was there, did that! - but there was a lack of grace in the way that her personal, private thoughts were forced into speech, into rehearsed lines and choreographed movement. Mad, sad, glad, Nell thought. She wondered how the play would make her feel today.

“Yes?” she said absently, as someone cleared his throat beside her. It was Fred.

“Are you alright?” he asked politely. “You seem a little off today, dear.”

Nell, who had hitherto formed no strong opinion on the character of Fred, felt a little touched. “I just need a moment,” she said sweetly, then walked out the door again, to Larson’s muffled protest (“but you just got here!”).

Standing outside the room, leaning against the wood-panelled door, Nell let Hannah back into her mind.

She waited, patient, as Hannah resurfaced, started to twitch again, to reclaim the corners and territories of her mind. It was an odd sensation, this slow unfurling of another’s consciousness, and Nell watched in interest. She’d always been interested in people, and there was something curved about Hannah’s mind - something gentle, soft - that contrasted intriguingly against Nell’s brittleness, her anger.

Please don’t do that again, Hannah thought, straightening up against the door.

It really was intoxicating, considered Nell fondly, to have power over someone. Another new experience for her.

You drive, she said dreamily. I’ll wait.

–

Marion was still not speaking to Hannah.

“I’ll do the dishes Mum,” Hannah offered, after a chilly lunch undertaken in silence in the dining room. “I really don’t -”

Marion shut the kitchen door pointedly. Hannah lingered for a moment, then heard the radio being switched on, and gave it up for a bad job.

Why do you care? asked Nell.

Shut it, returned Hannah, picking up her script and taking it outside to the garden. You know this is your fault.

I hated my mother.

I know.

Why don’t you hate yours?

Hannah reflected. Because she loves me. She raised me and cared for me - she still does.

Luke never had a mother. I envied him.

Luke was not the kind of person you wanted to emulate, thought Hannah severely.

A life of freedom, of wealth?

And irresponsibility.

I was very responsible. And very unhappy.

Hannah softened. I know you were.

Marion is -

My mum is a flawed, complicated person, thought Hannah fiercely. I can love and appreciate her, and still know that she’s difficult. Your relationship with your mother is not mine, Nell. I need you to understand that.

Nell gave a little sigh. I thought it was something we could have in common.

You will stay away from my mother, won’t you?

Hannah waited, a little anxious, while Nell (clearly feeling the dramatics of the situation) took her time to reply.

For you, my dear, I will.

Hannah breathed out in relief.

But you only get one, Nell added. Just the one.

–

The dress rehearsal went surprisingly well. No one forgot their lines, the props were (largely) remembered and (largely) used correctly, and Larson was generally satisfied that the lighting team had captured the intensity and manic atmosphere of the theatre’s Hill House.

Eleanor still wasn’t doing much on stage (she found the existence of the real Nell in her head made it impossible to act her out in person), but everyone had largely given up on her, so she was no longer a disappointment.

“Let’s just remember that for tomorrow,” Larson was saying eagerly, in their post rehearsal notes meeting, “the painted statuette needs to be stage right so that Luke can react to it in Act One Scene Four, and then the painted statuette needs to be moved back to stage centre for Act Two Scene One, to give an idea of space. And movement in the house.”

“If the painted statuette is not placed in exactly the right position, Larson will cry and cry,” whispered Shivani to Hannah.

“Ah, but if the painted statuette is placed in the right position, I will break it into pieces for sheer spite,” Hannah replied in an undertone.

“Such a horrid girl,” Shivani smiled.

Hannah wanted to kiss her. She turned away; this was so confusing.

“Drinks in the bar?” Joe called, looking round the room.

Fred and Shivani nodded. “Works for me,” the former said. “Let me just take my contact lenses out.”

“Coming, Han?” Shivani said, picking up her bag. “And you?” she asked, turning to Larson and Ava.

Hannah opened the door for her, then followed her out. “It went alright today,” she offered.

“Peachy,” Shivani replied. “Ah,” she said, searching in her bag, “I left my purse in the car, could you order a gin and tonic for me? I’ll be right there.”

Hannah determinedly did not watch her leave.

South Meadow offered a cafe, which did double duty as a bar for the evening clientele. There was a recital on this evening, Hannah vaguely remembered, in the Sunflower room - which seemed to account for the number of people milling around late on a Tuesday evening. Hannah queued for a minute, then found herself drifting out, and walking to the window instead. A group of teenagers were drinking cans on the terrace, and Nell felt sad for them. They don’t know what life is, yet. They don’t know how very disappointing it can be.

She’d always been a lonely child. Her father had been sickly for years, and she and her sister were always to help their mother, to help their father, to put off their childish cares and concerns and be responsible. Eleanor should be more careful, her mother had said, when at five years old she’d broken the china plate with the ribbon on it. Or Eleanor will go to bed without supper. Nell had spent the entirety of her life waiting for something better - slowly growing used to the mindless, crushing disappointment when it never came. Journeys end in lovers meeting, she thought. I’ve never had a lover.

Suddenly Hannah became aware of movement around her. She blinked; she didn’t quite know where she was, but no longer in the bar. People were rushing to the hallway, talking louding, and getting out their phones from their bags and pockets. “What’s going on?” Hannah asked the woman next to her, who was craning her neck to see out the doorway. “I heard an accident,” she replied, “someone fell off the balcony.”

All the hairs on Hannah’s neck pricked up. She pushed her way forwards to the hallway, and looked across to the open terrace, where something big and still and bloody was lying face-down on the floor.

It was Joe.

Hannah gasped, a hand flying to her mouth automatically. Was he… dead? He wasn’t moving. And, the blood - Hannah turned away. Then, turned back again, almost without meaning to. How could he have fallen? Over the bannister? She looked up. The rails were high, but he must have come from there, there was no other trajectory that made sense. But - it couldn’t have been an accident; no one falls like that without some sort of trigger. Alcohol, for instance, or drugs, impaired balance - or someone else, Hannah thought, the idea chilling her insides. Somebody who pushed him. She stiffened. She’d lost time. Where was she, for the last ten minutes? Where had she been? Did the logistics make sense - could she have gotten up there? Was it possible?

Oh, said Nell’s voice, close and soft and mocking in Hannah’s mind. Poor baby.

Hannah suddenly couldn’t be there. The room was crowding up, official looking people hurrying up with clipboards and rubbernecker bystanders, gawping at the blood. She wouldn’t be missed.

She rushed through the corridor to the east wing of the building - passing the pottery studio - and turned slightly right to join the hallways leading to the back of the building. Halfway there, she slipped into the smaller Sunley room, and collapsed down on the floor of the empty room.

“Was this you, Nell?” she demanded, speaking out loud and not caring about the spectacle.

You always think the worst of me.

“I have cause,” replied Hannah. “You locked my mother in my room. You scared me half to death in the bathroom just over there - you put white paint on the wall and ripped up the book -”

You’re making things up, returned Nell. It’s very naughty of you.

“And in the book,” Hannah continued, speaking fast, “we hear your thoughts, your violent thoughts against Theo, against your mother, your sister -”

It is unfair, said Nell stiffly, to hold that against me. It was the house, not me.

“But,” exclaimed Hannah, feeling close to tears, “I don’t know where the house ends, and where you begin!”

Mm. Isn’t it exciting?

Hannah shook her head fiercely. “It’s horrifying.”

Nell laughed. A airy tinkle which Hannah didn’t think she’d heard before.

We’re in a ghost story, dear heart, get used to it.

Hannah ran to her car and started the ignition. She could hear sirens, make out the distinct form of an ambulance racing up bagshot road, and her stomach lurched. She had a sudden, desperate need to get away from South Meadow. It makes people bad, she thought. It makes people -

It doesn’t do anything of the sort, argued Nell, it shows us who we are.

Hannah shook her head fiercely. I will never believe that.

She cut across east avenue to take a back road that would wind around to the back of her cul-de-sac.

You should believe. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen there.

I don’t want to know, Hannah thought, putting her foot on the break slightly.

Scared baby, Nell said.

Hannah put her foot down harder on the brake. “Are you doing this?” she shrieked at Nell, as the car started speeding up, veering off the road, then righting itself suddenly.

“Is this you?” she yelled as the car bumped against the verge, rocking Hannah sideways in her seat. “This is not funny!”

My sense of humour has always been underappreciated.

“Let go of the car!” Hannah shrieked as they swerved again, and the seat belt cut painfully against her ribs.

But this is not me.

CRASH.

In her last moments before the car held impact with the tree, Hannah thought she saw someone by the side of the road. When she opened her eyes - pain clouding her head and skewing her vision - that person had moved closer. She was standing there watching, next to the car window.

“Shivani?” Hannah asked dazedly, as recognition sparked dully in her injured brain.

The woman smiled. “It’s Theo,” she said softly, then inclined her head. “Goodbye, Hannah.”

In the last moments before Hannah lost consciousness, she thought she saw Shivani change before her eyes; a slightly longer chin, wider eyes, the freckles on her nose - were you always there? She wondered. Was it you?

She wanted to stay awake, she fought - battled - against the drowning of her senses, but there were other forces at play here, and she could not contend. This is still my life, she thought fiercely as she dropped. Still mine.

Then - slowly, reluctantly, Hannah fell into oblivion.

Nell emerged from the car, brushing glass from her hair and pushing her shoulder back into place, from where it had dislocated. There was blood pooling on her collarbone, and she wiped it away absently with her sleeve.

“How,” Nell said wonderingly, sidestepping the broken tree branch and walking up close to Theo. “How did I not know it was you?”

Hannah’s spine made a click when Nell straightened it.

“I don’t know,” Theo replied. “I recognised you early on.”

“Did you hurt Joe?” demanded Nell. Then she paused. “It was Joe,” she confirmed, “and not Luke?”

Theo giggled. “Luke’s too lazy to come to the other side.”

“Then - why did you push him?”

“Why do we do anything? We are -” Theo spread her hands wide, tipped her head back to the stars - “unfathomable.”

Theo’s voice was warm, langurious. Nell felt herself smile, that slow unbending, the unstiffening of posture that Theo brought out in her. How had Nell not recognised her? How had she not known?

“Think of everything we can do,” continued Theo, excitement emanating through her, “in this new world. We can be anything, do anything.”

She reached forwards and took Nell’s hand, pulling her to her. Her other hand brushed Nell’s cheekbone as she kissed her; wild and passionate under the night sky by a broken car and a fractured tree.

Nell kissed back. My first, my first, she thought, giddy with excitement, feeling Theo’s lips against hers, her body warm and eager pressed into her own.

Theo pulled away slowly. “Are you happy, my Nell?” she murmured, “do you want this?”

“I want,” replied Nell, and she kissed Theo again, softer this time, savouring the feel of Theo’s lips, the taste of her tongue, the sensation of her hand on her waist.

But - not, her waist. Not Nell’s hand, either. Borrowed clothes, borrowed bodies - playacting, in another’s life.

“What about Hannah?” Nell asked. “And Shivani?”

Theo’s face was blank. “What about them?” she shrugged. She took Nell’s hand again. “Let’s drive, baby, and see how far the world goes.”

Nell kept hold of her hand. “They’re people,” she said quietly.

Theo shook her head irritatedly. “Does Hannah, does Shivani deserve to live a life more than you? Than I do?” She smiled, her voice softer now. “Think of all we could have. A room that we’d share with the beautiful things we loved. Matching red sweaters and gold-rimmed plates; picnics on the green and nights where we sleep holding hands. You can have your cup of stars, Nellie.”

Joy, pure joy. Nell closed her eyes against the sensation. “Can we eat breakfast at dinnertime, and chocolate coins for breakfast?”

“Whatever you wish. Anything, anything.”

“I’ll wear your clothes and you’ll wear mine.”

“As close as cousins,” promised Theo, “sisters, sweethearts, soulmates.”

“No-one to tell us what to do?”

“Never again.”

Theo’s hand was on her waist again, was stroking the bare patch of skin above the rise of her jeans. Her voice was smooth and low and deliriously sensual. “It isn’t fair what happened to us, dear one, but this can make it right.”

Nell stilled. “It’s not fair?” she asked. Theo smelled of lavender.

“Of course not,” Theo murmured, tipping her forehead against Nell’s. “You think your life was fair? Your death?”

Nell didn’t answer. She closed her eyes (Hannah’s eyes) and breathed out, slowly. To be just, to be fair - did that really matter now? Had it ever? She’d lived her life, and it was a poor one, but it was hers, only hers.

She opened her eyes again, and kissed Theo gently.

“We’re leaving now,” Nell said softly.

“Yes!” laughed Theo, “we’ll go to Paris, to Amsterdam, we’ll eat croissants and cycle through tulip fields.”

“No,” Nell said sadly. “We’re going back.”

Theo frowned. “Back where?”

“Where we belong.”

Nell tightened her grip around Theo, as comprehension dawned and Theo started to push away.

“I won’t let you,” warned Theo angrily, wriggling against Nell’s hold.

“I was always stronger than you, my love,” Nell replied.

She wrapped her arms tight against Theo, breathed in the fresh air and the lavender scent for the last time, felt the ground beneath her feet and the sense of blood running through her veins. And then, entangled together with an increasingly desperate Theo - feeling her heart thump hard against her chest, arms twitching, fingers claw at her back - Nell let go. Sadly and deliberately, she let go for them both.

Journeys end.

–

South Meadow Facebook Page: New Post

On behalf of the South Meadow Studio Theatre, we are very sorry to announce that the production of The Haunting of Hill House has been cancelled, due to cast member injuries. Please be assured that all ticket holders will receive a full refund.

We are very happy to confirm that both Joe and Hannah are expected to make full recoveries - we’re are sure that you join us in wishing them well.

–

Epilogue - Twenty Years Later

“It’s crap.”

“Language,” Hannah said reflexively, peering at the titles on the shelf in front of her. “No, we’ve skipped K, I think we need to go back a stack.”

Hannah’s daughter stomped her feet as she walked back to the other shelf, and Hannah sighed. She looked up to meet the sympathetic eyes of the bookstore clerk, and they shared a look.

Teenagers.

“All the reading list titles are boring,” Frances whined, “they’re all so old.”

“There are some classics on there,” argued Hannah, picking up the list from her daughter. “Ah well, Frankenstein is a little dry, but you can dip into it. North and South is wonderful, as is Josephine Tey, and -” she stopped, startled. “And The Haunting of Hill House,” she said slowly. “That’s -” she paused again, remembering long unspoken conversations in the dark, dreams of another life and a shared consciousness that she could almost persuade herself that she’d imagined.

“It’s a very interesting book,” she said finally, looking down at her daughter. “Highly atmospheric. I’d recommend it.”

Frances didn’t answer, but Hannah decided to continue anyway.

“It’s about a woman who is trapped in a bad situation, and who finds a way to get out of it. She’s flawed - very flawed, at times - and she’s susceptible to corruption. But she fights it, she tries to be better. She’s very brave, in the end.”

Frances looked up. “What happens to her?”

“Liberation,” Hannah said, after a pause. “Freedom.”