Whispers in the Wood

By Clarissa Johal

It all began with an acorn.
There are some places you shouldn’t disturb, and where history lingers. When Rowan travels to England, she discovers a remote village, hidden in the shadow of an ancient forest. Vague warnings from the local people aren’t enough to stop her from venturing into the trees, or from picking up a single acorn. It seemed a simple action. But when a stranger emerges from the forest claiming the acorn belongs to him, Rowan finds herself pulled into something both centuries-old and deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clarissa Johal
• Release date: Jun 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005472634

Clarissa Johal

Clarissa Johal is the best-selling author of paranormal novels, THE LIGHTHOUSE, WHISPERS IN THE WOOD, POPPY, THE ISLAND, VOICES, STRUCK, and BETWEEN. When she's not listening to the ghosts in her head, she's swinging from a trapeze or taking pictures of gargoyles. She shares her life with her family and every stray animal that darkens their doorstep.*Member of the Authors Guild

Book preview

Whispers in the Wood

Clarissa Johal

Copyright © Clarissa Johal 2018

Faeriemoon Press - June 2018

Edited by Frank Moore

Cover Design by Clarissa Johal

Photograph by Pana Kutlumpasis and used with permission (CC0)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Sheep’s Crossing

This is Sheep’s Crossing, not some fancy London B & B. The older woman’s eyes were the color of thistles and just about as sharp. She tucked Rowan’s ninety pounds into the pocket of her dress. And I don’t offer room service.

I wasn’t expecting any. Rowan shouldered her backpack wearily.

You people on holiday expect everyone to bend over backwards to accommodate you.

I don’t expect—

With not a thanks to be had—

Thank you, Grace.

"That’s Mrs. Lyon. Her expression was one of sour disapproval. We do not know each other well enough to be on a first name basis."

Mrs. Lyon. Sorry, she added, contrite. I just need a place to sleep. No extras.

The woman turned with a huff and continued upstairs. Her salt-and-pepper hair was coiled into a tight bun with not a strand out of place. Given other circumstances, the owner of the remote bed and breakfast would have looked quite elegant. However, Rowan had clearly rubbed her the wrong way and she’d made no qualms about making it evident. The hem of her navy-colored dress scraped against the tops of knitted slipper boots. Please clean the tub after you bathe. Towels are on the shelf next to the sink. Use only one, as I’m not a maid. I’m in bed by ten p.m., so mind the time when you’re out and about.

Do I get a key?

No, you do not. The doors aren’t locked, but you’re expected in by ten p.m. It’s a small cottage and you can hear everything. I don’t take kindly to be woken at all hours.

No key. Ten p.m. Got it.

The second floor was comprised of three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a sitting room. The sitting room boasted a simple blue sofa and coffee table. Other than that, it held nothing personal that would indicate it was being used. The doors to the three bedrooms were all closed.

If you’re an early riser, I’d appreciate if you’d keep it quiet. Grace cast her a doubtful look. My bedroom is next to the sitting room and, as I said, I can hear everything. The bedroom door across from mine is to remain closed at all times.

Do you have another guest?

No. She continued to the end of the hallway. This is your room. It’s over the kitchen, so it should stay reasonably warm at night. Extra blankets are in the storage chest.

The cramped bedroom had a slight musty smell to it. A single mattress was topped with a light blue quilt. An old, wooden storage chest sat at the foot of the bed. A tiny table held a reading lamp and old-fashioned alarm clock. The bedroom’s casement window overlooked rolling, green pastures bordered by a thick forest.

If you wish to hike, there are several footpaths, Grace said. Don’t bother the sheep. The main footpath leads to the village, the others lead elsewhere. When you return from hiking, please leave your boots in the utility room where I showed you.

Yes, ma’am. Rowan saluted her.

She raised her eyebrows. Are you being cheeky?

No—

Breakfast is at six a.m., she interrupted with a frown. If you want to eat later than that, you’ll have to walk to the village.

Six is fine—

No loud music, drinking or smoking. Grace pointed an accusing finger at her. "And no guests or funny business. This is my home, not a party house. There’s a pub in the village for socializing. She crossed her arms. If you were planning to meet up with friends, they’ll have to make arrangements to stay elsewhere. I only have one guest room."

I wasn't planning to—

You paid ninety pounds for three nights. I’ll expect you out by noon on Monday. If you decide to stay longer, you’ll have to pay another ninety by three p.m. on Sunday. As I said, I don’t do one-night lets.

Not a problem. I’m flying back to California next—

And no smoking.

I don’t smoke—

Welcome to Sheep’s Crossing. Without further ado, Grace turned smartly and shut the door behind her.

And what a warm welcome it is. Rowan tossed her backpack on the bed. "Grumpy."

Backpacking across England had been everything she’d hoped for, up until a couple of days ago. She’d been staying at a hostel when another backpacker accused her of stealing his drugs. Before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled a knife on her. The hostel owners had been quick to subdue him, but she’d come out of the altercation with a deep cut across her shoulder, a lump on her head, and a broken cell phone.

Rowan left Penrith, glad to be on her way. For three days, she’d hiked across miles of rolling lowlands on what was supposed to be a scenic route to Keswick. Unfortunately, the English weather had not been cooperating. It had rained non-stop, visibility was poor and she’d quickly lost track of the hiking trail. She’d broken the zipper on her backpack looking for her rain poncho, which she’d left behind. On the first night, she’d found an abandoned barn and saved herself from having to sleep in the downpour. On the second night, a sparse grove of trees provided shelter. On the third, she’d been forced to bunk down in a muddy field. By the morning of day four, Rowan was suffering from beginnings of hypothermia and dreading nightfall. Fortunately, she'd encountered another backpacker who’d directed her to Grace Lyon’s. In spite of Grace's less-than-welcome attitude, the remote bed and breakfast was a godsend. She loved backpacking but sleeping outside in the rain reminded her too much of her past. And hiking with no rain poncho? That hadn’t been the plan either.

She gingerly touched the lump on the back of her head. I can’t believe that asshole, she muttered. Rowan pulled the broken phone from her backpack and tried to turn it on for the umpteenth time. The screen remained blank. Maybe I can find a place to repair it in Keswick. It can’t be more than a day’s hike away, she thought. I’ll spend a couple of days at that cheap hostel I saw online, catch a train to Heathrow and then, it’s bye-bye England. She tucked the phone away and went to clean up.

The white-washed floors of the bathroom were spotless like the rest of the cottage. A sponge and bottle of cleaner sat next to a stack of neatly folded towels. Rowan picked one up and reveled in its softness. My towel feels like sandpaper compared to this one. Not to mention it’s soaking wet along with everything else in my backpack. Her gaze fell on a large claw footed tub which faced a low-lying bathroom window. Lacking curtains, the window looked out over rolling green hills. Which are beautiful if you’re not lost in them, she sighed.

She turned on the bath water and waited for the tub to fill. Her jeans and hoodie were too muddy to consider washing by hand, plus they’d never dry by morning. My other clothes are just as disgusting, she thought with a grimace. I’m sure there’s a Laundromat in town. I’m too tired to think about it right now.

Rowan peeled off her wet clothing and sank into the hot water with a sigh. She washed off several days of travel and winced as the soap stung her shoulder. Her namesake tattoo of a rowan tree felt ruined. Sustaining the brunt of the knife-attack, the trunk of the tree was literally split in half. Red berries that once scattered the branches like ripe fruit now resembled dried blood drops. To complicate matters, a mild infection had set in, making the tree appear red and diseased. She carefully washed and rinsed the wound.

Rowan lay back and ran the past month over in her thoughts. Leaving school was probably a mistake. She'd set money aside for a summer backpacking trip, not for a last-minute trip in the spring. But lately, she’d felt little direction. Her grades had slipped and she’d become increasingly unhappy with her job. She wasn’t running away, Rowan told herself, she was trying to find direction. And as much as she loved San Francisco, she needed to completely escape the hustle and bustle of her life in order to think clearly.

She closed her eyes and envisioned her one-room studio. Located over the bar she worked at, her boss, Tiger, a.k.a. the Landlord-from-Hell, saw no need to perform general upkeep. The cracked bathroom tile was permanently stained and a relaxing soak in the tub generally wasn’t an option. God knows what would crawl across the ceiling at any given moment. Her walls were plastered with outdated and peeling wallpaper. The hinges of her Murphy bed, broken by previous tenants, kept her from folding the bed away when she had friends over. Her closet-sized kitchen housed an ailing compact refrigerator and stove-top that rarely worked. The sole highlight of the studio was a picturesque bay window. Unfortunately, it suffered a taped-up crack that ran its length, though as far as the view went, the window faced a brick wall. She’d tried to brighten up the place with a bonsai tree she’d rescued. More often than not, she found herself talking to the thing. Silly, really, but she wasn’t allowed a pet.

A drop fell from the bathtub faucet. She watched the ripples spread outward across the water’s surface. Grace’s home was beyond silent, she noted. No city traffic. No rowdy bar noises or alley fights from outside. No boss pounding on the front door asking her to cover someone’s shift. Asking wasn’t really the right word, she corrected herself. Telling was more like it. You got a good deal, Tiger would argue. I took you in when nobody else would. The least you could do is cover one extra shift. I can’t run the bar with no goddamn staff, you know. No Fireshots, no job. No job, no place to live. Their arguments were pointless, Tiger knew he’d get his way, and she knew it too.

She finished her bath and stepped from the tub. Unfolding a fluffy bath towel, she used it to dry off. Grace is lucky. I’d love to live in a place like this. It feels like a home, rather than a second-class room over a bar. Wiping the small mirror over the sink, she met her gaze. Dark circles under her eyes stood out against a pallid complexion. Her eyes were bloodshot and showed the strain of the past few days. No wonder she gave me the stink eye, though, she murmured. I look like shit. She ruffled her short, black hair. At least I’m clean. She secured the towel around her body and gathered her dirty clothes.

She could hear the whistle of a tea kettle from the kitchen downstairs. As she passed the forbidden room, the glass doorknob gleamed in the half-light like an invitation. In spite of Grace’s stern warning, she was tempted to open the door and peek inside. You’re going to get yourself kicked out. And don't think Grace wouldn't do it, either. She hurried to her room before she could talk herself out of reason.

Rowan switched on the lamp and opened the window to allow some fresh air. The rain had finally stopped and the sounds of sheep echoed across the hills. Her gaze fastened upon a thicket of trees that bordered the pasture like a barricade. Illuminated by the sun’s dying rays, the forest stood against the farmland like something yet to be tamed. She shivered as a breeze caressed her shoulder. Weighing her options—fresh air or warmth—warmth won. She closed the window and latched it.

I’ll check out Sheep’s Crossing tomorrow morning. She crawled between the crisp, cotton sheets with an exhausted sigh. I’ll stock up on some cheap food, wash my clothes, explore a little, and... She was asleep before she finished the thought.

It seemed like seconds later when she woke with a start. Expecting the usual neon that flashed across her studio walls, she was momentarily confused by soft moonlight. I’m in England, she thought sleepily. At a bed and breakfast…somewhere. A chill hit and she snuggled under the covers. Her attention shifted to the curtains waving like beckoning hands. I thought I closed that window. Bracing herself against the cold, she slipped out of bed.

The moonlight traced a silvered path into the forest. Her gaze was pulled by a red-orange glow within the trees. Rowan leaned out the window to get a better look. A fresh breeze hit her naked skin. Grabbing her bath towel from the foot of the bed, she wrapped it around herself. I wonder who’s camping out there. She pondered on the fire for several moments before closing the window and latching it.

Chapter Two

The next morning, Rowan woke to clear, blue skies. Stretching, she took a moment to appreciate the feeling of being warm and dry. The sun’s pale rays shone through the window pane and washed away her usual morning worries. Gone were the lingering smells of fried bar food and stale beer that managed to seep into her apartment back home. In its place was the scent of home cooking; sausages, tomatoes, eggs, toast…she tried to identify what else. Grace said breakfast was at six a.m. She rolled over and saw the alarm clock read past seven. Shit! Leaping out of bed, she pulled on a pair of damp jeans and a T-shirt.

Grace was energetically mopping the kitchen floor, seemingly lost in thought. Her navy dress was replaced by a plain gray button-up and matching cardigan. The kitchen door was slightly ajar and a pair of muddy Wellingtons sat on the porch. A wicker basket, filled with eggs, sat on the counter.

Did I miss breakfast?

Grace glanced up with a start. I told you yesterday, breakfast is at six a.m. It is now…seven-twenty-four.

I didn’t mean to sleep in—

You have an alarm clock beside the bed.

I forgot to set it.

You forgot to clean out the tub last night too, she snipped. I’ll expect you to take care of that before you run off to do god-knows-what.

The threat of tears caught Rowan off-guard and she caught her breath.

Grace looked up and pursed her lips. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Sit down. I’ll fry something up for you.

Thank you. She sunk to the kitchen chair in relief. I’m starving.

Hmph. She pulled a skillet from the cupboard. You young people are always starving. When did you eat last?

A couple of days ago.

A couple of—? Why didn’t you eat at the pub last night?

I was too tired. Rowan touched the back of her head and winced.

And now you have a headache because you haven’t eaten.

No, it’s not that…I got into a fight a couple of days ago.

Of course you did. She deftly broke two eggs into the skillet. Well, I won’t tolerate any violence here. One sideways look and out you go—

I didn’t start it, Grace. I was attacked at the hostel I was staying in Penrith. Asshole said I stole his drugs. Which I don’t do, by the way.

"That’s Mrs. Lyon, and mind your language, she rebuked with a frown. I expect you’d like toast as well?"

Mm, yes, please.

Sheep’s Crossing is off the beaten path, to be sure. What sent you in this direction?

Another backpacker told me you ran a B & B. She gave her damp jeans a tug and settled again. I was headed towards Keswick.

Keswick? You’re far from Keswick, I can tell you that much.

I must have gotten turned around because of the rain. Do you know which direction it is?

To the west. Grace turned down the stove. You’re quite adept for a backpacker.

"I had a GPS on my phone. She sighed, frustrated. Can I borrow your computer? I’ll pull up Google maps and figure out which direction to go myself."

I don’t own a computer.

No wonder you don’t get many people stopping by, she muttered. Seems like that would be the best way to advertise a B & B. Especially if you live out in the boonies.

Grace raised an eyebrow. Would you like to find someplace else to stay?

No…sorry. Grace set the plate of food in front of her and the aroma of eggs and toast filled her nostrils. I need to figure out where I am. Do you have a paper map I could borrow?

No, I do not.

Do you know how far of a hike it is to Keswick?

No idea. She crossed her arms. Why didn’t you explained your situation last night?

"I didn’t feel like explaining, Grace. I was exhausted."

"That’s Mrs. Ly— She shook her head, resigned. If you need to notify your family of your situation, you may use my phone. Keep it short."

She hesitated before answering. Thanks.

Are you a student?

I’m taking a leave of absence right now.

Do you have a job?

I’m a bartender.

Of course you are. What are you studying at school?

She shrugged before taking a bite of toast. Undeclared.

You’re going to have a tough time getting a job with all those…things in your ears.

"I have a job. Rowan leveled her gaze, irritated. And they’re called gauges. Nobody cares about them at Fireshots and even if they did, they do come out."

Don’t be cheeky. She shot back. I assume you have tattoos too?

The muscles in her shoulder inadvertently tightened. Everyone has tattoos these days.

What do your parents think of your tattoos and those things in your ears?

They aren’t around to care. I was an unfortunate complication of their one-night-stand.

Grace’s face reddened. I see. Would you like a cup of tea or are you a coffee drinker? Because I don’t have any coffee—

"Tea would