The Shadow House: A Novel

PROLOGUE

The bones come first. A gift, but nothing wanted. Next, a doll: a likeness, a promise. And the blood marks the choice. It finds a face, and then you know.

Help. I need help. That’s what he said; I remember it clearly.

Voices in the night, and footsteps, soft and slow on a carpet of green, on the grassy path that goes up to the blue sky and the diamond moon and the place where the birds fly north. That’s where it happened.

A noise … No, two noises, one after the other. First quiet, then loud. Oh, there was so much blood. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know how to help.

I remember all of it—only then I forget.

The rules, though; I won’t forget those. Listen to me carefully, repeat after me: bones, doll, blood. That’s how it goes. Things arrive, and then … a magic trick. Here one minute, gone the next. No one knows where he went. No one except the birds. They know. They saw everything.

It wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be stopped.

Things arrive, and then they take you.

ALEX

1

Okay, kids. I brought the car to a stop and peered out the windshield. I think this is it. We’re here.

Neither child replied. Glancing at each of their sleeping faces in turn—Ollie beside me in the front, Kara in the back—I felt a pang of anticlimax. The first time I’d seen Pine Ridge it had taken my breath away, and I’d been looking forward to seeing their expressions as we drove in. Well, Ollie’s expression anyway. At eight months old, Kara couldn’t yet tell animal from vegetable so I wasn’t likely to get a reaction from her, but I’d been certain my fourteen-year-old son would be impressed. Instead, he was snoring. Headphones on, head lolling awkwardly to one side, drool glistening in the corner of his mouth.

Kids, I said again, a little louder. As if in response, Ollie’s phone lit up in his lap, buzzing softly with a notification. I glared at it, tempted to pick it up and hurl it straight into the nearest garbage can.

Instead, I checked the house number and street name again. Definitely the right address, and the description matched. A split-level at the far end of the village, the last in a row of four. White walls, blue roof, two balconies and a timber staircase at the side. No one was waiting to greet us, though—which seemed strange until I remembered that I hadn’t given an arrival time when I’d emailed a few days earlier. I’d had no idea when or even if we’d be able to get away, so I’d told them I’d have to play it by ear. No problem! had been the cheerful reply. Just pop into the office when you get here, and we’ll show you around. But the office had been empty when I’d passed, so I’d carried on driving along the narrow main road to our allocated unit, following the directions I’d been given. There was no rush; eventually either someone would find us or we would find them.

I took a breath. The car was cramped and had that family-road-trip smell: feet and Happy Meals. Our belongings were packed around us so tightly I’d half-expected the windows to burst. Storage cartons, loose shoes and books, jumbo flexi tubs bought in a hurry from Kmart and stuffed with our dirty laundry: I’d crammed them Tetris-style into every inch of available space. An expert job, if I did say so myself. But if there was anything I did well, it was packing up and moving on.

I rolled my window down and a fresh breeze pushed its way into the car, mussing my hair like a drunk uncle and bringing with it the sweet, earthy scent of resin. A tingle of excitement skipped across my skin: I live here now.

I looked over at Ollie again, ducking my head a little to see under the brim of his cap. It was one of those gorgeous Australian November days—not too hot or sticky, just perfectly pleasant—but my son was bundled up in his usual sloppy green hoodie. It needed a wash; the orange circle on the front bore a tomato sauce stain the size of a fifty-cent piece.

What’s wrong with you? he said, suddenly opening one eye. Why do you keep staring at me?

Oh. Sorry. You’re awake.

What? My son held one of his headphones away from his ear and tinny music escaped from the padded speakers: a thrum of bass overlaid by a single screeching note like an air-raid siren.

I said, you’re awake.

Um, obviously. He pushed his cap back and tugged his headphones down around his neck. Why are we stopped?

Because we’re here. We’ve arrived.

Ollie shrugged and picked up his phone. Checking the notifications, he moved his thumbs rapidly over the screen. Tap-scroll-tap-tap-scroll.

Don’t you want to get out and take a look around?

With his eyes still glued to the screen, Ollie opened the car door and got out. Quickly checking on Kara—still asleep—I did the same. I could smell orange jasmine, lilly pilly, lemon myrtle and just a touch of sea salt. No car fumes, no asphalt, no overflowing dumpsters. I inhaled and my lungs felt fresh and clean.

Ollie turned in a slow circle, surveying his new surroundings. Although it was just two hours from the guts of Sydney and only thirty miles northeast of the Central Coast’s suburban sprawl, Pine Ridge ecovillage could not have felt more remote. Nestled high up in the hills and built on former farmland, it seemed completely cut off from the chaos of the city. No skull-shatteringly loud roadworks, reckless teenage drivers screeching their tires or the constant ECG blip-blip-blip of pedestrian crossings. From the middle of the two-hundred-acre site, all you could hear were birds, bees and the hush of the wind.

The sense of peace was exaggerated by the shape of the valley—shallow and round, like a dish—and the flat stretch of water that lay at the bottom like an enormous blue puddle. The surrounding trees acted as natural soundproofing, muffling what little noise there was until the quiet felt almost artificial. The beauty of the village, too, seemed unreal. The Lego-spill of buildings from the top of the ridge to the valley floor reminded me of those European towns featured on jigsaw puzzles and postcards—Positano, Cinque Terre, Santorini—and their proximity to the reservoir made me think of the tranquil lakeside settlements I’d visited while backpacking in my late teens: Bled, Hallstatt, Seyðisfjörður, San Marcos La Laguna.

Ollie, however, was unmoved.

I jangled my keys while I waited for his verdict. My adrenaline levels were still high from the quick exit, the fast drive. Both hands on the wheel, one eye on the rearview mirror. Dry mouth, cracked lips, nail beds bloody and stinging after weeks of nervous chewing.

I watched my son’s face, desperately wanting—needing—him to like it as much as I did. Driving down from the ridge just moments ago, I’d been so confident. How could you not love the seclusion, the sense of absolute safety? The road that wound away from the freeway and down into a lush tangle of eucalypts, the turquoise sparkle of the reservoir, and the way the land held the houses like a pair of cupped hands. It was perfect. But now, seeing the isolation through my son’s eyes, the colors of Pine Ridge took on a darker hue.

In some areas, the village was still under construction. The roads were powdery, marked with dirty tire tracks and clumps of earth. Mud-spattered concrete mixers sat next to freshly poured slabs and elaborate timber frames, and dotted around the periphery was evidence of the old farm the village had been built over: abandoned trailers, coils of rusty wire, stacks of discarded piping. Rickety old sheds slouched in corners like sulky children.

But, judging by the pace at which the development had grown since I’d first seen it, that would all get cleared up soon enough. Thrown away or burned. Paved over, smoothed back, polished up and transformed into something better. Out with the old, in with the new. I liked that sentiment. Clearly, there was no room for the past in a place like Pine Ridge. Or that was my hope anyway.

I cannot believe, Ollie said eventually, in the disdainful tone of voice he reserved especially for me, that you’re making me move to a hippie commune.

It’s not a commune. It’s an ecovillage.

Whatever. He went back to his phone. It’s a dump.

I sighed, deflated. Why don’t we go on up and take a look around?

We climbed the six wide steps that led up to the house. On either side, terraced retaining walls had been topped with grevillea, bottlebrush and other low-maintenance shrubs, giving the garden a slightly wild and unkempt feel.

Why couldn’t you just have grounded me or something? said Ollie behind me. That’s what all the other parents have done. No one else is getting pulled out of school and shipped off to the middle of nowhere.

At the top of the steps, I studied the windows, looking for signs of life. This isn’t your punishment, Oliver. Try to think of it as an experiment. The lease is only three months. If after that we decide we don’t like it, we can leave.

Like we always do.

Not always.

Yes, always.

"And you are grounded."

What?

"Until further notice. That’s your punishment."

His jaw fell open.

Sorry, mate, I said. Your actions, your consequences.

"But I didn’t even do anything! He stared at me, outraged. I already told you—"

I know what you told me, and I don’t want to hear it again, not right now. We can talk about it later.

He scowled for a moment longer before returning to his phone, face blank, jaw set, neck bent forward at an alarming right angle.

I tried the front door, but it was locked. I knocked, but there was no answer. I took a step back, studying the first-floor windows. The house, like many of its neighbors, was built on a steeply raked block, and from what I could see, the two levels had separate access. The upper connected to the road behind while the lower—a smaller, self-contained version of the more spacious upstairs—opened onto the road in front.

Why only three months? Ollie’s sharp question came out of nowhere.

What do you mean?

Just seems random, that’s all. Like, isn’t it usually six months? Or twelve?

This place works a little differently, I said. They only want permanent residents, because they’re trying to grow the community, so you get three months to decide if you want to invest—like, try before you buy. And if you don’t want to commit by then, you have to move on.

So, what happens if we want to stay?

Well, we could build. I walked around the side of the house to where a paved patio had been set into the lawn. The wooden staircase I’d glimpsed from the road led up to a small balcony on the first floor. They have a scheme here called ‘collaborative living,’ where you put your name on a list, they match you with people you might like to live with, and then you all buy a block of land together.

Huh, said Ollie.

You split the cost of the land but build your own separate houses, which makes it half the normal market price. I looked back at the lower-level windows. The whole place seemed deserted. I don’t think anyone’s here. Should I go upstairs, do you think? Or head back to the office?

Ollie ignored my questions. I don’t get it. You want us to buy a house with strangers?

Not a house, a block of land. The individual house, once we built it, would be ours. You could help design it. Doesn’t that sound exciting?

No, it sounds mental.

I wandered back around to the front of the house.

Ollie followed me. Why would we buy anything with people we’ve never met?

Well, obviously we’d meet them first. That’s the point of the temporary lease; it’s like a trial run. Gives us time to get to know people, see if we like them.

And see if they like us, I added silently.

What if no one wants to live with us? said Ollie, as if reading my mind.

I shrugged. Then we leave.

Right. He pulled his cap down over his eyes. Of course we do.

Oh, come on, I said. Don’t be grumpy. Look at the view! I spread my arms wide, gesturing to the forest on our left, the houses to the right, and the undeveloped land on the other side of the valley. Rainwater tanks sat in terraced gardens and solar panels reflected the sun. Butterflies and bees orbited nasturtiums and geraniums, and directly in front of us, just visible over the top of the neighboring houses, the reservoir reached out to a rising hill and bright green grass stippled with shade. In an empty paddock, a single old farm building stood prettily like a scene from a painting: white weatherboard, a gabled roof and a wraparound veranda.

Isn’t it beautiful? I breathed.

It’s shit, came Ollie’s blunt reply. "Where are the people? Where are the shops, the cafes, the surf clubs? Where is the surf?"

I pointed out a volleyball net strung up between two poles, and an adventure playground under bright orange shade sails. Barbecue stations, picnic tables and a swimming jetty that stretched out over the glittering surface of the reservoir. The freshly paved roads, I said, were perfect for bike and scooter riding. It’s like a nature park, don’t you think?

With a mere toss of his head, my son made it clear that he did not. Can I have the car keys? he muttered. I need to charge my phone.

His dismissal hurt. I dug in my pocket and passed him the keys. As I watched him trudge back down to the road, I spotted something on the top step. A brown cardboard mailing box sitting in the shade of an overgrown shrub, half-hidden by flowers and leaves. I crouched down to take a closer look: was it meant for me?

The package was unmarked—no name, no address—and unsealed. Curious, I pulled back one of the flaps, revealing feathers and a tiny scaled claw. A single beady eye. And glistening pink lumps.

Oh, god. I jumped away from the box. Was that … a dead bird? I went back to check. Ugh, gross. Definitely a bird. Definitely dead, squashed and mangled, like it had been gutted by a cat or a fox. Some of its feathers had been torn out and tiny bones were sticking out of a gash in its flesh. The inside of the box was smeared with a dark, oily-looking substance.

What the hell was a dead bird doing on the doorstep? Surely the rental properties were checked and cleaned before new tenants moved in?

Then I heard a noise. A swishing, crackling sound coming from somewhere nearby. It sounded like footsteps moving through long grass. I got to my feet. Turning in a slow circle, I gazed up at the house, my eyes traveling the walls to the upper level, the windows and the overhanging eaves. I looked at the neighboring houses and into the forest, but as far as I could see, no one else was around.

I glanced down at my car to where Ollie was sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open, his headphones back over his ears. He already hated the place; smashed animal corpses wouldn’t improve his opinion. I picked up the box and walked around the side of the house. Finding a garbage can at the back, I lifted the lid, threw the box inside and immediately felt better.

But as I returned to the front of the house, I was gripped by a wave of panic so intense that I had to lean against the wall to stop my head from spinning. Was I doing the right thing, moving to Pine Ridge? The cumulative weight of my decisions threatened to crush me: all the things I could have done but hadn’t, all the things I’d done but shouldn’t have. Every choice suddenly seemed like the wrong one.

My heart raced, my stomach churned. All your fault. Shitty mother.

Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my thoughts but heard Stuart’s voice instead. Go on, run. Go ahead and try. I’ll find you.

I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. Get. It. Together. Your children need you.

Right on cue, I heard my daughter stir, her soft kitten noises floating through the open car window. My breasts tingled as my milk came down in response—nearly time for another feed—and as Kara’s cries increased in volume, my own words to Ollie echoed in my head: Your actions, your consequences. Briefly I considered opening my mouth and wailing along with her.

But, no, everything would be fine. Better than that, it would be great. I had already done the hard part and now I would make us a new life. We would be okay.

I opened my eyes and thought about the glorious distance between me and Sydney, the gigantic spread of national park with its creeks and cliffs, rainforest and swollen rivers. I looked at the hills, the trees, the water, and all those shiny new homes. Above them all was the sky, big and bright and full of potential.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It will be fine.

There was nothing better than a fresh start.

ALEX

2

Just as I was soothing Kara and wondering what to do next, we met our first neighbor: a thin woman wearing a long linen dress and a yellow headscarf who came hurrying along the road from the direction of the gates. Hello, she said, offering her hand for me to shake. You must be our new arrivals. I’m Jenny, I live upstairs.

Alex, I said, grasping her palm. Lovely to meet you. Thanks for letting us move in at such short notice.

My pleasure. And no need to thank me—I mean, I suppose I’m technically the landlady, but we don’t really think of each other in those terms here. The land belongs to everyone. She chuckled self-consciously. So where are you from? Is that an accent I can hear?

Yes, I grew up in England but I’ve been in Australia now for almost as many years. We’ve just moved from Sydney.

Ah, Pine Ridge will be quite the change for you, then. Here’s the key. Sorry I wasn’t around when you arrived; I only popped out for ten minutes. Did you find the place okay? Can I help you with anything?

I liked Jenny immediately. Despite her gaunt face and skinny frame, she had a lively, infectious energy.

Well, hello there, sweetie, she said, tickling Kara under the chin and making her giggle. Aren’t you precious? She even got a smile out of Ollie, which, at that point, felt like a small miracle.

Jenny kept Kara entertained while Ollie and I dragged our life from the car like guts from a fish, chatting cheerfully as we hauled it all up the steps. She was so kind and eager to please that I couldn’t bring myself to mention the dead bird in the box; I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by complaining.

Fortunately, I couldn’t find fault with anything else. The unit itself was delightful. The living area held a sofa, rug, coffee table and small TV. Light spilled in through two good-sized windows and a set of sliding glass doors led to a small entertaining deck. The kitchen was light and airy, with a brand-new electric oven and subway-tiled walls, and a bowl of yellow lemons had been placed on the timber-topped island counter, bright as a vacation in Spain. It was so cute I could’ve cried.

Jenny showed us where everything was and how it worked, and then just as she was leaving, a man appeared in the doorway carrying a bottle of wine and a brown paper bag.

Ah, Kit, Jenny said. Good, I was just about to call down to the office. Alex, have you met our founder?

Yes, of course. I gave Kit a friendly wave.

Alex! said Kit, enthusiastically. So glad you made it.

My stomach flipped. I’d forgotten how attractive he was. Tanned skin, a light beard and dark hair tied back in a man bun. A fit-looking physique pleasantly showcased in a muscle tee and cut-off shorts. A smile as white and clean as a bedsheet drying in the sun.

Kit Vestey and I had met just once, by accident, outside a Bondi yoga studio several months earlier. Kara and I had been leaving our very first (and last, as it turned out) Mums and Bubs yoga class and we’d both been cranky: she’d missed a nap, and I was pissed off with all the rich-ass mumpreneurs who were so much bendier than me and whose children were so much more compliant than mine. Kara had spent the whole class wriggling away from me and side-eyeing all the other infants as if to say, Designer diapers? Headbands? These are not my people—which, quite frankly, had been fair enough.

Despite my mood, however, I’d said hi to the guy handing out flyers in the lobby, because the way he’d smiled at me made me think I knew him. He asked me how I’d enjoyed my class, which seemed like confirmation that we knew each other, so we stood there for a while, chatting about yoga like old pals—and then he handed me a flyer. Pine Ridge, it said. Create the life you want.

I realized then that, in fact, he was a total stranger, and I’d made the mistake of engaging with a street salesman. I started to make my excuses, but the feeling of déjà vu was so strong that I found myself lingering as he made his pitch. Community, sustainability, great for the planet, affordable housing, blah blah. It’s not really my thing, I said in the end, but it was nice to meet you.

Days later, the name Pine Ridge was still stuck in my head, as was the guy’s warm smile. I kept thinking about the flyer I’d tucked into my handbag.

And then one day, when things had got really bad, I went for a drive. Ollie had left for school, Stu had left for work. Kara hadn’t slept in what felt like months, so I was at a pretty low ebb. I’d just intended to drive around the block to get her to sleep, but for some reason I kept going, edging further and further out of the city, until I ended up on the freeway. I drove and drove, near stoned with exhaustion, wondering if perhaps I’d finally gone round the bend and would end up somewhere near Cape York … and then I saw an exit coming up, a frontage road snaking off to the side, little white arrows on the asphalt pointing the way. My brain said, Turn here. So I did. Twenty minutes later, I saw the sign and realized my subconscious had driven me all the way to Pine Ridge.

I parked. Took a look around. And promptly fell in love. The rolling hills, the forest, the color and the light … I’m home, I remembered thinking, before telling myself to snap out of it and mainline some caffeine in case I started hallucinating.

I didn’t stay long that day, and I didn’t see Kit. I spoke briefly to a woman who assumed I was lost (when I didn’t correct her, she gave me directions back to the freeway), and then I drove home. I told myself I’d put Pine Ridge in my back pocket, save it for a rainy day. And when the rain finally—and inevitably—fell, I made a call. Fortunately, Kit seemed happy for me to pay the three months’ rent upfront and in cash when I arrived.

At the time, it’d felt like the best idea in the world. But now, standing in my new kitchen, the whole thing felt very rushed and I questioned myself all over again.

Well, said Jenny, if you two already know each other, I’ll get out of your way. Alex, it was lovely to meet you. Have fun unpacking, and if you need anything, just ask. Giving me a quick pat on the arm, she disappeared out the door, leaving me alone with Kit.

Fast work, he said, stepping inside the unit and nodding at all our boxes and bags. Looks like you’ve got your roots down already.

Not our first rodeo, I said. And Jenny helped. She’s very nice.

I’m sorry, I should’ve been here, too. I honestly don’t know where the day has gone. Can I bribe you into forgiving me? He handed me the wine: a buttery-gold white with a handwritten label. A little welcome gift, homemade by one of our residents. And this is bread and cheese. He put the paper bag on the kitchen counter. I thought you might be hungry after your journey.

Thank you. An embarrassing blush crept up my neck. Looks-wise, Kit wasn’t especially remarkable: average height and build, blue eyes, thick eyebrows and sharp lines that ran down each side of his mouth when he smiled. But he had some major charisma going on, and something about him made it hard to look away, like when a painting draws your attention but you can’t articulate why.

There was an awkward pause I didn’t know how to fill. I became painfully aware that I was a mess: dirty hair, no makeup, denim shorts and an unflattering T-shirt I’d thrown on in the dark that morning. I hadn’t even showered yet. Kit, by contrast, looked fresh, clean and confident. His T-shirt, I noticed, bore a swirling eye-like symbol below the words What’s your truth? I almost laughed. My truth? Oh, honey, you don’t want to know.

I cleared my throat. Sorry, I should introduce you to the kids. This is Kara. I bent down to lift my daughter from the floor where she’d been rolling around on her mat, safely hemmed in by boxes, holding her toes and babbling to herself. She clung to me and shoved her whole hand in her mouth.

Kit gave her a wave. Ah, she’s beautiful.

I smiled at her proudly. She knows it, too.

Kara removed her hand from her mouth and blew a spit bubble. Bah bah, she said, and banged her hands together like she’d just performed a magic trick.

My son Ollie’s around here somewhere, too. I’ll go find him.

No, it’s alright, let him settle in, Kit said. Can I help you bring anything else up from the car?

No, I think we’re all done.

In that case, said Kit, why don’t I show you around the village? I’ve just about got enough time to give you the grand tour.

Stuffing Kara in her pram and forcibly dragging Ollie with me, I followed Kit around Pine Ridge, oohing and aahing at all the special features. We walked back to the main gate and started with the site office, a cleverly renovated shipping container set in its own little garden. Through the glass wall at one end, I could see a long tidy desk and two chairs set up in front of large computer screens. That’s where I spend most of my time, said Kit. If you have any problems or questions, you can usually find me in there.

Next to the office was a long shed with a mechanical code-lock on the door and a sign that said Food Store. Behind that was a stretch of lush garden, bursting with color, and even further beyond, a long row of curved greenhouses covered with plastic sheeting. There were fourteen originally, Kit said, but only one or two were still in use when we bought the land. The plastic had all blown off and the beds were overgrown, but they had heaps of potential. We’ve got nine of them back up and working now.

In the center of the village overlooking the reservoir was a community hall, a gym and a small cafe run by a volunteer. We’ve got plans to build a bigger one over by the greenhouses, Kit explained, along with a pool and a wellness center.

There was a tool library, from which any resident could borrow any DIY instrument imaginable, and an actual library, well stocked with new titles. Kit also showed us two different playgrounds. We try to give the kids as much to do as possible to get them off their screens and outside. Although they really don’t need much encouragement. They seem to want to be outdoors all the time, even when the weather’s crap. A brand-new climbing wall and a skate ramp, he said, were on their way.

We carried on past more houses, more gardens and a third playground. The village was anything but busy, but now I could see what I’d missed from the position of our unit: a quiet but constant buzz of low-level activity. Parents with small children playing on the shores of the reservoir; work-from-homers taking coffee breaks on their balconies; retirees in hats and gardening gloves, kneeling in dirt, ripping weeds from the soil. Everyone smiled and waved as we strolled past.

We stopped for a moment in the shade of a tree. Kara mewled in her pram. It was hot and she was getting