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Chapter One
Rain drove in sheets across the windscreen as Mercy Galanis squinted through the foggy glass, her hands tight fists on the steering wheel of her small sedan. The wipers thrashed like a mime on crack, while the air-con flooded the cabin with hot air roaring in her ears as it worked overtime to demist the windows. Whatever weak sunlight that had filtered through the heavy clouds earlier had been banished by the storm raging overhead as the darkness of a stormy night closed in around her. Her palms were sweaty as she focused on the twin red taillights of the removalist truck in front of her, the car’s headlights making little progress cutting through the sheets of water and the gloom of early nightfall. On either side of the winding road, tall trees with ghostly white trunks hemmed her in, swaying and writhing in the howling wind like twigs caught inside a whirlpool. She only hoped the unexpected storm didn’t portend complications ahead.
A quick glance at where her mobile phone rested on the dash revealed a blank screen, her GPS having failed several kilometres past and having yet to re-connect. Becoming lost in the Tasmanian wilderness (at least that’s what it felt like to her) was not her idea of a fresh start.
Surely, Bitterport Bay had to be close by now! They’d been travelling for hours. If they hadn’t missed the first turn-off, she was sure they would have arrived already. It felt as if she’d been on the road for months, but that was only because the past four weeks had been a frantic, non-stop merry-go-round of activity. Once she’d made the decision, she’d moved quickly. Packing up her worldly belongings hadn’t taken long given the small amount her ex, who had been her partner for eleven long years, decided was her fair share of their relationship. Not that she had cared too much, because when it came down to the wire, she realised that most of the choices during their time together had been made by him. Then had come the winding down of her small accounting business, the booking of the car ferry, The Spirit of Tasmania, organising the two removalist companies, and the plotting of her journey from her home in a small rural town on the outskirts of Coffs Harbour to an isolated village about eighty kilometres north of Hobart.
There had been no family to notify, only a few friends with whom she’d gradually drifted apart from over the years—no one really to make objections or to point out the folly of her actions. A fact that hadn’t been lost on her.
With a grim twist of her lips, she wrenched her mind back to the present as the road noise beneath her car changed to a queer chug, chug, chug. Peering out her side window, she spotted a half rock wall, realising she was crossing a small bridge. And then her headlights picked out a grimy WELCOME TO BITTERPORT signpost that leaned drunkenly to one side with a faded blood-red word scrawled across its surface. But her car rolled past before she could identify the message. Tension oozed from her stiff shoulders. Finally, they were about to reach their destination.
As if that thought had been transmitted by telepathy to her young dog, Pip straightened from where she’d been curled in a ball on the passenger seat and gave an excited yip. Mercy reached out and ruffled the pup’s fluffy, floppy ears, earning several licks in gratitude. The truck signalled a right-hand turn, and Mercy refocused on the road, increasing her speed, following close to its hulking bulk.
The narrow road wound through thick bushland, and her car’s engine whined as it automatically shifted down a gear, indicating the terrain was rising. Her heart hiccupped when the truck’s brake lights flashed, and she hurriedly applied her own. She was just wondering whether she should get out of her car and approach the other driver when the larger vehicle jolted into motion again. A few seconds later, it took a road to the left, and as she turned, it soon became apparent the term road was a rather grand exaggeration as she jolted and lurched down what was little more than a gravel and very muddy track.
Her low spirits sank even lower as she took in the darkness surrounding her. No streetlights indicated any form of civilisation. No glinting of house lights even in the distance. Nothing but blackness, swaying trees, and the rain drumming on the car roof like a stampeding horde in a cadence that matched the relentless jabs of doubts stabbing inside her mind. If it hadn’t been for the truck ahead, she would have thought she was the only living soul around.
The scene was straight out of a horror movie … a dark and stormy night!
Before she could delve into that random thought, the truck came to a halt. Mercy slowed her car to a crawl. An involuntary quiver snaked deep in her belly as the truck’s headlights revealed the building looming large and somehow menacing in the shadows of the night. A streak of lightning pierced the sky, briefly illuminating the face of the bath house before darkness swallowed it once more. For a split second, she could have sworn there was a figure in an upstairs window. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she strained her eyes, but now there was nothing to see; only the blank, indifferent façade of colonial era brickwork like a prison wall guarding its secrets.
A car horn honked, and she flinched before setting her car in motion once more. She swung around to park in front of the truck, giving the removalists plenty of space to open the rear doors and unload. Her breath puffed out in a relieved sigh when she spotted the dark shape of another vehicle a little way down the road. As she turned off the engine, she craned her neck towards the building that now belonged solely to her, spotting a thin, shifting form standing beneath a massive umbrella close to the house, lit up by the truck’s headlights.
Thank heavens.
That had to be Mr. Denakis, the lawyer acting for the former owner. The man with the keys to her new home. She hoped he hadn’t been waiting too long in this foul weather.
Then … I wonder why he didn’t wait inside the house?
Quickly, she brushed that errant thought aside and shrugged into a rain jacket before releasing Pip from her constraints. Pulling the hood over her hair, she battled to open the door, dog lead in hand, then splashed over to the front door. She noted that the two removalists had remained inside their cabin, their pale faces watching her as she bent her head against the wind and rain. Pip whined near her feet before shuffling off a few paces to relieve herself.
A second or two later, Mercy picked her way over what felt like the slippery surface of a cobbled pathway. She fetched up beside the lawyer waiting beside the two white, concrete pillars supporting a narrow portico, and swiped water from her face, saying, “Mr. Denakis? I’m Mercy Galanis.” She extended a wet hand.
They shook, his handshake warm and firm.
“My dear, you must be frozen through.”
“I’m sorry you had to wait so long. We missed the first turn-off and ended up coming the long way round.”
“Don’t give it another thought. These country roads can be confusing for first-timers. Although I did begin to wonder whether you may have had second thoughts.”
A cold blast of rain slapped her face. Shivering, Mercy moved beneath the meagre shelter offered by the portico. “No way, Mr. Denakis. This is my future.”
“I, for one, am glad that you are here. And I know others will be equally as happy.” He beamed at her as if expecting her to know who those others were. “And please, call me George.”
“Thank you, George. It’s great to meet you in person.”
“Likewise. Now, let’s get you inside and out of this weather.” He shuffled closer to the front door, producing a large old-fashioned key, and inserted it into the lock. Before he turned the key, his serious eyes met hers. “There is just one thing I should mention. The bath house has a bit of a reputation in these parts for unusual noises, but all these old buildings have creaks and groans. I wouldn’t want you to be startled.”
“I appreciate the heads-up, Mr. … sorry … George. I’m certain I’ll be fine.”
“Excellent. Shall we?” Standing well back, he allowed the door to swing open with a grating creak of rusty hinges.
Mercy shivered, telling herself it was the cold and not some spooky premonition she felt as she gazed into what looked like a yawning pit of black nothingness.
An icy chill rolled out of the doorway, sending a fresh spasm of shivers through Mercy.
Behind her, the removalist leaned on the horn—again—a shrill reminder of the hours ticking past. And her bill mounting up!
A little timidly, she asked as she peered into the deep shadows, “Is the power on?”
“Of course.” Mr. Denakis extended a pale hand and groped about near the inside of the door. There was a click, and a dull-yellow glow bloomed into life above their heads.
“Now, would you like me to show you around?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve studied the floor plans you sent me and have a fair idea of which rooms are where. I don’t want to keep you any longer.”
“Very well, my dear. You have my number. Please do not hesitate to contact me at any time should you have any questions.” George held out his hand again, holding hers for longer than necessary before releasing as he added, “I do hope that you will be happy here, Mercy. The bath house has waited a long time for … someone like you. Someone who can bring light into the shadows.”
Her eyebrows rose at his cryptic words. “I hope so too. Goodnight, and thank you again.”
With one last smile, George trotted down the path towards his parked car, brolly bobbing and feet splashing water up over his trousers like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Which Mercy could totally understand. The night was freezing, and he, like everyone else, would be keen to snuggle down in front of a warm fire.
Drawing a deep breath, Mercy turned back to her new home, hearing the slam of car doors as the two removalists exited the truck and then trudged to the rear, where a series of squeaks and rattles were heard as they worked open the door and extended a ramp onto the ground.
“Well, Pip. This is it. What do you think of our new home, sweetie?”
She cast a rueful glance down at her muddy boots, then over at her pup’s equally dirty paws. No point in worrying too much about a bit of water and dirt, not when in a few moments, she’d have men tramping in and out with furniture and her bits and bobs.
The lawyer’s car growled into life and disappeared back down the track.
For a few seconds, the deluge of rain eased off to a dismal drizzle; even the removalists made no sounds as an uneasy quiet permeated the frosty air with a sense of foreboding.
Lightning cracked, a jagged arrow through the heavy clouds, quickly followed by the rumble of thunder.
The reminder that she still stood outside in a raging storm propelled Mercy into the house, tugging Pip along with her. The front light was sufficient for her to locate two other switches on the wall, which, once turned on, illuminated the entry as well as the large room they now stood in, water pooling around their feet. Directly ahead, a marble staircase with intricately carved handrails flowed to the upper level, while to the left, closed glass French doors revealed another, larger room. A wide hallway ran beside the staircase leading further into the building but was shrouded in darkness.
“Now, this is more like it.”
Lifting her gaze, Mercy admired the beautiful, pressed iron ceiling and the overhead light fitting that looked straight out of the Victorian era and probably chewed up a ton of electricity in the bargain. Something for her to consider later.
She shuffled further into the room, which she rather thought had once done double duty as both a reception area and living room, surprised to see the shapes of furniture beneath dusty sheets. Her fingers tingled as she reached out and swept the dust cover off the closest one to reveal a wing-backed chair in surprisingly good condition. She tested the cushion, finding it firm, yet comfortable.
Excitement rose. Mercy had never considered the building came complete with furniture—a real blessing considering her current beggarly collection. All she possessed in that department was the once-upon-a-time spare double bed (with the almost brand-new latex mattress she had recently splurged on), a sofa (which had once sat in her study), an old record player, and an outdoor cane garden setting which she thought she could use as a dining setting until something more formal could be sourced. But maybe that would be one problem she wouldn’t have to worry about. The timber bookcases, along with the main bedroom suite with two matching chests of drawers, the double-sided refrigerator with its built-in ice machine, and the coffee machine had all been claimed by the guy she’d once believed she’d grow old with.
She could still recall that heart-stopping moment when she’d received the call from the lawyer. At first, she believed the bloke was some kind of scam artist, scheming to relieve her of everything she possessed, which wasn’t that much, to be honest. Once she’d established Mr. Denakis’s credentials, though, a far different emotion had replaced her scepticism.
Hope.
Hope for a fresh start even if she still had to work out what the rest of her life was now going to look like.
Buried in the farthermost nook of her heart, a tiny flame of yearning flickered, one she rarely acknowledged. Maybe this bequest would shed some light on her past.
But one thing she was certain about was that the Seacrest Bath House, located in a tiny town she had never heard of, was her ticket to a brighter future.
Making mental notes, her gaze continued to examine the room. While she didn’t have much in the way of furniture, what she did have in abundance was books, vinyl records, and china—all of which she had begun collecting (hoarding as her ex used to complain) as a teenager. One of her favourite pastimes had been visiting garage sales and travelling to distant charity and second-hand op shops for bargains.
Finally, she’d have a place where her collections could be displayed and enjoyed.
The sound of a rasping cough had her turning to where the burly figure of the grey-haired removalist had just begun to sidle through the doorway, muscles bulging as he struggled with his end of her beloved and comfy sofa.
“Where do you want this beast?” he muttered.
“Will it fit through the door?” Mercy frowned, wondering whether she should offer to lend a hand.
He blew out a noisy breath, sounding irritated. “Door’s one of those extra wide jobs, like it’s the entrance to an old bank or something.”
“It’s a bath house.”
“Huh?” His scowl turned to bewilderment.
“The building. It’s an old bath house which I intend to convert into a wellness retreat.”
“Don’t care. Come on, lady. This thing’s heavy.”
Heat flushed over Mercy’s face.
“Of course. Sorry. This way.” Feeling a bit silly for overlooking the apparent size of the entrance when she’d only moments ago walked through it herself, she made a sweeping gesture with her hands and hurried ahead of them a few steps down the passageway running beside the stairwell.
Pip pranced beside her, nails clicking on the hard parquetry floor.
One of the first things she’d asked for when she’d been notified about the unexpected and strange bequest had been a floor plan of the building. Once printed out, she had pored over the document night after night as she’d dreamt and plotted about everything she intended to achieve. After feeling adrift for so long, the bequest had been an anchor she could attach herself to and had given her a fresh purpose in life.
She flicked on another switch, relief washing over her when the light in the passageway flared to life as she continued to a set of double timber and glass doors on her left. They opened easily to her touch, and as she pushed them further back, an audible click resounded as they locked into place. She found the light switch for this room on the doorjamb and stepped aside to allow the men entry, shortening Pip’s lead so the little dog was close to her legs and not in the way.
Eyes wide, she took in the pleasing dimensions of the spacious room. Timber shelves had been built into three sides of the room, even flanking an enormous open fireplace on the opposite wall. On the right, three high and narrow windows were inserted between the shelves at regular intervals, each framed with dusty-looking floor-length drapes composed of a plum-coloured, velvet-looking material. Several sheet-covered lumps indicated the presence of more furniture—another sofa, five armchairs, a sideboard, and six small coffee tables. Several area rugs were scattered around, softening the effect of the hard parquetry floor. Already, she could envision how the room would look with sunlight streaming through the windows, the bookshelves free of dust and glowing with polish, plump, emerald-coloured velvet cushions on every chair, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The result would be a cosy library or den where people could relax and unwind, either with a good book or listening to music playing softly. She glanced around and gasped at the sight of what appeared to be a genuine, 1930s drink trolley.
Perfect.
The two men grunted as they lowered the sofa onto the floor before shuffling towards the door.
“Bed and mattress will be up next, lady.”
“Okay. That’s going upstairs,” Mercy called out to their disappearing backs.
She heard one of them utter a groan, and as much as she longed to begin exploring, first things first, her worldly goods needed to be offloaded so those blokes could head back to Launceston.
Making her way up the stairs, her heart beat faster with every step she took and every light she switched on. The building was impressive; it had so much potential, she had a hard time believing it had stood unoccupied for over fifty years. Maybe more. Suddenly, curiosity about its past flared as she crossed the first-floor landing. She flicked on the light to the room she intended to use as her own. It was the front bedroom and the only one with its own ensuite. With a quick glance over her shoulder to check where the men were, she rushed across the room, closing the door on both herself and her pup.
Pip wasn’t the only one who had found the drive far too long.
A few relieved seconds later, she pulled the chain on the old-fashioned cistern.
Nothing.
Tried again.
A faint gurgle sounded. Then a rattling shudder. Next, a squeal like steel pipes rubbing against each other.
But no gush of water.
Unbelievable. No working loo.
She tried the tap in the basin, muttering under her breath as a few trickles dripped onto her open palms.
Seriously? No water?
Emerging from the small bathroom, she found the blokes wrestling her latex foam mattress covered in protective plastic through the bedroom doorway. Dumping the mattress on the ground, they trudged back outside. While they continued to empty the truck, Mercy whipped out her mobile. She tried the lawyer first. He didn’t pick up, not too surprising given how late it was—so she left a message. Scratch that—she left two messages. Next, she found the contact details of the plumber she had contracted for the upgrades needed to transform this run-down mausoleum into a world-class spa resort. Of course, he didn’t answer either. More messages left.
And then she groaned as she noticed no bars on the right-hand corner of her phone.
No reception.
Hopefully, that problem was a one-off event caused by the thunderstorm and not a recurring issue.
At a shout from one of the removalists, she trotted down the stairs with Pip still on her lead.
The main room was stuffed with several stacks of cardboard boxes and full plastic tubs piled on top of each other, along with her outdoor setting. She really had a lot more possessions than she’d thought.
“We’re off.”
“Thanks so much,” she said, shaking the older bloke’s outstretched hand.
“Don’t forget to leave us a good review. Good luck, you’re gonna need it.” He shot a quick glance around the room, eyes bulging, as if he’d seen something or someone before bolting outside into the pounding rain.
Turning around, Mercy saw nothing.
Pip growled, then wagged her tail, her attention also fixed in the direction of the shadowy passageway.
Mercy heard the truck’s engine rumble into life, then dismissed the man’s odd behaviour from her thoughts as she closed the door and then locked it, giving a sigh as she pulled off her boots. Mud and tiny water puddles marked the passage of feet; she’d have to find her mop and bucket, but that was a chore for tomorrow. She unhooked Pip’s lead, and the little dog leapt forward, yipping, tail flicking furiously from side to side as she raced into the shadows.
“Pip! Here, girl!” bellowed Mercy as the pattering of the dog’s paws faded.
Grabbing her mobile, Mercy hurried after her.
Opposite the doors opening to the room she already thought of as the library, was a single door that she knew led into a large kitchen. Next were two doors, again facing each other; one was to a storage room which was empty apart from metal shelves, and the other opened to another bare room that she had mentally marked out as her study or office. A bit further along were two additional rooms on opposite sides of the passageway.
Dead ahead was another wide marble staircase, although this one led down to a vast space where the pool had been situated in convict days. Mercy knew from the plans and a limited number of dodgy photos that the basement area comprised said pool, several small changing cubicles, and two larger rooms where she intended to upgrade the plumbing to house showers and toilets.
There was no sign of Pip, but Mercy could hear her excited yips and yaps echoing up the stairwell and the soft thuds of her paws. It sounded as if she was chasing something. Probably mice. The place was no doubt teeming with the furry creatures. But hopefully not rats. Mercy had hoped to examine the basement pool area in the whole light of day, not in the middle of the night, but she couldn’t leave Pip down there alone. And the playful pup showed little signs of answering Mercy’s calls.
She groped for a switch to light the stairs, but nothing happened when she pressed down. Instead, she switched on the torch app on her phone, aimed it at the ceiling and rolled her eyes at the absence of a bulb in the fixture above. Hanging onto the railing with her other hand—which, thankfully, felt somewhat sturdy beneath her tense grip—she made her way down the three flights of stairs to emerge into what felt like a cavernous space.
The light from her phone barely penetrated the pitch-blackness a metre in front of her, and goosebumps marched over her arms like a swarm of angry ants. Ahead, a darker rectangular space indicated the presence of the empty pool, and a glance at the area near her feet revealed what had once been beautifully etched mosaic tiles, now covered in dust and dirt. She could see very little of the walls, but she knew from images George had sent that there had once been murals painted on the convict bricks at some stage. Hopefully, they were not so far gone that they couldn’t be restored.
She took one step forward, the sound a dull thud that echoed around the walls and totally creeped her out. The chill down in the bowels of the building was something else. Her knees shook as a bone-deep cold slithered over her flesh like the slide of snowy fingers.
So quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence was smothering, weighing her down as if trying to pull her under …
Hang on.
Where was Pip?
Then she heard it, the soft snuffles and excited scrabbling of paws over dirt, or was it pebbles? Taking care where she walked, she edged around the side of the pool until she caught sight of her little dog, head down, sniffing and wagging her tail like mad.
Irritation rising, Mercy hurried forward and scooped her pet into her arms. She hesitated, a strong compulsion to investigate what had attracted her dog’s attention tugging at her mind. But then Pip made frantic wriggles and whined. She recognised those signs. After one lingering glance into the hidden corners of the pool area, she bolted up the stairs, spine rigid, the hairs on her neck stiff, feeling as if eyes followed her every move.
A noise like a mournful sigh whispered behind her, begging her to return.
Stumbling and gasping, Mercy reached the top of the stairs and stopped. Heart pounding, she turned and stared down the steps into darkness.
There was nothing there.
No one followed her.
There were no chasing footsteps, no voices.
Her imagination was probably on overdrive. Still, no way would she venture into the basement again until the missing lightbulbs had been replaced.
As she rushed along the passageway towards the front door, a line from Shakespeare’s most famous play flickered through her mind, … something wicked this way comes.
End of Excerpt
