Free The Silent Twin by Unknown

fate was not connected to this case. She had to move on. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and waited. A floorboard creaked from underneath her feet as the darkness closed in. Whispers grew, scratching noises like rats’ claws tapped along the floorboards. They were drawing near. A noxious smell rose in the ether. Gone was the soft glow of a paraffin lamp. The only light rose and flickered from the fireplace, where a boiling pot produced the stench of rotten meat. Jennifer wanted to put her hand to her nose, but to do so would bring her to the present. Steadily she breathed, focusing on the whispers growing around her as the room darkened from behind her eyelids. This was not a welcoming energy.
    ‘Leeeeave,’ a deep disembodied voice drawled. ‘Be gone, all of you.’ It sounded like a recording being played back on slow, and impossible to tell if it were male or female, or even human at all.
    ‘Where is Abigail?’ Jennifer asked, remaining steadfast.
    A low moan was followed by a growl, a presence casting a shadow over her closed eyes. A darkness enveloped her, and the rotting smell grew, forcing Jennifer to break contact. She fought to shake off the presence, like a heavy coat of tar crusting on her back and shoulders. Whatever it was, it had no interest in helping the family, but fed off their discord.
    She opened her eyes, rubbing her arms as she grounded herself. If Abigail had passed on, it was too soon for contact to be made, and the dark, thick energy that claimed ownership of the house was too strong to allow anything else through. Jennifer shook off the remnants of its presence.
    ‘Leave this family be,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve been through enough.’
    But she had closed the door to communication. She picked up her computer and powered up her emails. It was time to contact Zoe and see what secrets she had uncovered on the history of Blackwater farm.

Chapter Fourteen
    J oanna lay back on the bed and inspected the cracks in the ceiling. Her bedroom was her refuge, the confines of the four walls keeping a lid on her emotions. But at night, four walls became five, when her husband slept with his back to her, flinching if she touched him in the night. As if she was something bad. Something dirty. She thought of another ceiling, with polystyrene tiles and yellowed walls. Where nobody could hear you scream. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she was back there . . . back with the hailstones tapping their icy fingers on the window, and the acrid chemical smell that enveloped her every cell.
    The heavy thump of the front door made her jolt, and she gripped the duvet, gasping for breath. She had been falling, deep into a nightmare. She couldn’t push away the army of thoughts invading her brain. Not without help. Alighting from her bed, she sat in front of her vanity table, plucking the clots of mascara knitted between her eyelashes. Her reflection stared at her in triplicate, and she practised her smile. Be strong. You can do this. The voice whispered inside her head. Her voice. It was the only one she should be listening to. Her fingers wrapped around her bracelet and pulled as far as the band of elastic would allow. It was a cheap piece, picked up in Spitalfields market. She had told Fiona she bought it because the bright beads matched her outfit. The truth was, it was a prop to clear the fog in her head. Her heart flickered as she released the tension. It snapped hard against her narrow wrist, and she gasped in satisfaction at the sudden sting of pain. Her reset button was switched, and she was back in control.
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    T he wardrobe door creaked on its hinges as she rifled through her clothes. Just what did you wear to a press conference? Nick’s shirts dangled on wire next to her dresses on their pretty padded hangers. She held his shirtsleeve to her cheek. It smelt of fabric conditioner. Fiona had ironed it far better than she ever could.
    The last time Nick had worn the shirt was at a dinner party,