The Haunting of India Lucas

CHAPTER 1

"Where am I? What am I doing here?" she wondered aloud. She knew her name was India Lucas, and that she lived in modern-day London. But she knew nothing else.

India was alone in a place that was dark and solitary. The peaty scent prickled the back of her throat, threatening a cough. The path was lined with a mess of broken flowers, and the lane resembled the forests she had read about in psychological thrillers. She rubbed her hands together to give them warmth, but the rest of her body shivered amid the cold. The soil caked the bottom of her feet, wedging between her toes. She felt heavy but resisted scraping off the soil, knowing it would just get filthy again.

India stumbled over a branch and stood upright at the last moment. She picked it up and hurled it away from her with everything she had. It took a lot out of her, and she breathed quickly for a number of seconds. She then surveyed the landscape for people, cars, animals...anything, but she was completely alone.

Her nightgown was thin and translucent and didn't leave much to the imagination. It prompted her to hug herself in case someone watched her from the rocks. She also feared being attacked by an axe-wielding maniac, or being kidnapped and held captive in a house. Perhaps I escaped from such a place. That would explain why she was still in her nightgown without any shoes on her feet.

She tried to think of her last moments in London, scrunching her eyes to eke out a memory, but her mind went blank. She not only couldn't remember what happened in her last moments in London, but she also couldn't remember what she had done for the last few months. Though it was distressing, she forbade herself from thinking about it, knowing it wouldn't help her current situation.

Her dark brown, shoulder-length hair flapped in the wind, and her green eyes peered into the inky darkness. Sharp stones pierced the base of her feet as a breath escaped from her mouth in foggy puffs of smoke.

Putting one bruised foot in front of the other, India inched her way through the landscape, the blackness denying her a glimpse of the road or its surroundings. However much she walked, the scenery remained lonely, cheerless, and desolate. Her face sank as she remembered how her sister, too, had been swept from existence. She wished she'd said goodbye to her because Beth was the only person who ever stood by her.

India forced herself to stop thinking about Beth, knowing it would take her away from her alertness. She needed to watch where she was going and be sure not to step on a venomous snake or fall down a thirty-foot ravine. Wherever this place was, it was a far cry from the comfortable suburbs of South London, and she loathed being there.

She approached a fork in the road and came to a halt. The path to the right was swathed in sandy soil, with the odd tree dotting the landscape. The path on the left was as black as charcoal, and looked like it had been smothered in volcanic ash. She took a tentative stride onto the right path because it was less isolated. The second she did, the warmth disintegrated into a brisk wind that spiralled through her threadbare clothes. The road steepened and she clambered up it while gasping for air. Having reached the peak, she hurriedly scanned the landscape for signs of life, and way off in the distance stood a manor house. The solitary building was the only structure visible and somewhere she could seek shelter.

India headed to the residence, tiptoeing down a road littered with branches, rocks, and boulders. The howling wind didn't make things better, though she was grateful it wasn't winter as she would have definitely perished.

Halfway up the lane, she stood on something sharp and came to an abrupt stop. India wobbled on her feet for a couple of seconds, dreading what she had done. Eventually, she lifted her foot and winced at a thorn sticking out of the middle of her sole. Pinching the barb between her fingers, she yanked it out and tossed it away. She hobbled along and came to a marker with Radcliff House carved on it in thick and messy lettering. The scratches on the sign made her consider turning around. Despite her wariness, the house was fated to become part of her life because there was nowhere else to go.

She continued at the same measured pace and arrived at the manor house entrance to find it blanketed by an unearthly mist. The emaciated branches peeked out of the fog, whispering to her that this was an unwelcoming place.

India stepped into the courtyard of Radcliff House, knowing she might never leave.

The wind rushed past her ears, whipping up the scent of rotting vegetation. It was so thick she tasted it on her tongue. The cool air formed goosebumps on her skin, and made her teeth chatter. The fog obscured everything in front of her and she didn't know whether she was about to collide with something. Consequently, she walked through the courtyard at the slowest pace she could manage.

The outline of a building appeared out of nowhere, draining the blood from her face. The structure was made of beige bricks that towered above her like a mountain and grey vines clung to the walls like veins beneath skin. Even with her head tilted back, she couldn't see the whole building. The dry leaves tumbling at her feet gave the premises an eerie feel. So much so, she decided if she were ever to write a ghost story, this mansion would be her muse.

She approached a wooden door and stared at the cracks in the wood. There were no sounds emerging from behind, no voices beckoning her to go in. If she wanted to she could return to the country lane and carry on until she found a way home. But her aching feet convinced her otherwise.

India opened the door to reveal a great hall five times the size of her living room. Dark curtains hung at the windows and the walls were painted a dull grey. She didn't like judging books by their covers, but the room was too bleak to belong to someone happy.

She didn't go in straight away, allowing herself a few seconds to flee if something untoward came at her. Her knees buckled and she grabbed the door frame to stop herself from falling. Gathering whatever strength she had, she stepped inside the residence, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to rest.

The first thing that caught her eye was a staircase that disappeared into the shadows. India cranked her neck to see what was beyond the middle stair when the door slammed behind her, making her whip round. There was no one there. Just the wind.

Turning back, she ran her eyes over a chesterfield sofa in the centre and a mahogany bookcase in the corner, neatly lined with all sorts of books. A magnificent fireplace took up half the room and the smell of burnt kindling surrounded her, meaning it was still in use. Although her initial thoughts over the owner being unhappy remained, she appreciated their seemingly exquisite taste.

As her eyes rose above the fireplace, her mouth fell open at a painting of a man in eighteenth century clothes. The one by two metre portrait was so well painted it looked like it was watching her. India shuffled across the room and stood in front of it, squinting her eyes to get a better look.

The subject was around thirty-years-old with dark, wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and a clean-shaven face. He had a small cleft in his chin and his skin had the slightest hint of a tan. His clothes comprised a black riding suit, white shirt, and brown leather riding boots, and clasped in his left hand was a leather riding crop.

If she judged him on looks alone, she would say he was a person who didn't appreciate strangers. She felt dizzy and shifted her feet to get her bearings. The dizziness grew worse until her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed on the floor.