Mary Hades
Authors: Sarah Dalton
Mary Hades
By
Sarah Dalton
The Mary Hades series – YA Gothic Horror
My Daylight Monsters (a Mary Hades novella)
The Blemished series – YA Dystopia
The Fractured: Elena (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 1)
The Fractured: Maggie (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 2)
The Blemished Complete Boxed Set
The White Hart series – YA Fantasty
White Hart
(White Hart #1)
M
ary Hades
Sarah Dalton
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EBOOK EDITION
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Copyright © 2014 Sarah Dalton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Sarah Dalton
Stock images from
Depositphoto.
I’m there again, in the flames.
The knife plunges into her and she falls forward.
“No!” I yell. “No!
Lacey!”
She collapses into my arms. Blood pours from a wound in her back and the only thing I can do is drag her away.
“Stay awake! Please, stay awake.”
He strides towards us, the flames behind him creating a deathly halo of orange and red. My skin is hot. My blood boils.
“You’re going to get caught,” I say, backing towards the window. “They’ll see what you’ve done to Lacey and lock you away.”
“Not if I can help it. Tales will be told for years of how Mary Hades killed her roommate, set the hospital on fire and then slit her own throat. It’ll be legendary.”
His lips peel back to reveal that his teeth are clenched in a joyless grin.
My back hits the window. A surge of desperation tightens my throat.
But then there’s movement in the flames. Dark shadows rise, dozens of them, filling the space behind my attacker. People of all ages, sizes and races: a little girl with a bald head and a tube emerging from her nose; an elderly man, so thin his hospital gown hangs like a deflated tent. They step forward and I know what they’re here for.
“Not if they have anything to do with it.” I nod behind him.
He turns and a moan escapes his lips, full of sick, animalistic desperation. The ghosts surround him, grabbing him, pulling him to the floor and smothering him. He tries to slash at them with the knife but it does nothing.
“No!” he screams. “No…”
The stench of mildew and burned flesh turns my stomach and I look away.
“You’re not afraid of the darkness anymore,” says the ghost. His hands are filthy with the flesh of my attacker. “You toughened up and you fought.”
He’s right. I’m not afraid of the darkness. I’m not afraid of anything. I never wanted it to end, you see. I really didn’t. But we all end, one day.
The promise of July: sunglasses and cut off shorts, feeling the warm blades of grass between your toes, trips to the brook at the edge of the woods, short nights that seem to go on forever—smothering you with oppressive heat until you wake up gasping for breath, your hair plastered to the back of your neck.
The long days provide freedom from school and parents, and often even friends. It’s a time to be alone, to let yourself grow, to shed another layer of skin as you progress through adolescence.
Each summer tracks your maturity with the flakes of skin trailing your footsteps. Those layers are childhood husks. You know that when you go back to school, passing notes in class will become a thing of the past; too immature for us now. Crushes become relationships. Gossip turns from who snogged who to who shagged who.
We are in the midst of that rarest of things—a warm and sunny English summer. It has lasted for almost two weeks and even the old ladies at the bus stop have stopped talking about the weather. No one wants to jinx it. No one wants to frighten the sun away. We treat it like a bird in the garden, tip-toeing
our way through the lawn, trying not to startle it into taking to its wings and abandoning us.
I’ve been waiting for this moment. Since the fire, my burns have taken time to heal. Now t
he bandages are off, and I can go out in the sunshine. I want to enjoy the rest of my summer before it fades into September and brings the school term with it. The thought of exams and coursework make my abdomen clench with anxiety. Right now, I want to forget about all that, enjoy being alive, enjoy my well-earned freedom.
But as soon as the opportunity is within my grasp, it’s snatched away by those who-think-they-know-best. I find myself pouting like a little girl, regressing into the stereotypical teen, whinging away at my parents.
“You’ll enjoy it, Mary.” Mum has her back to me, folding clean clothes into three neat piles. One of those piles is mine. “It’s nice to get away from here. There will be plenty of people your age.”
“
Camping
?” I say again. “I shouldn’t be going camping with my parents anymore. I’m
seventeen
.” The words
it’s not fair
are within dangerous proximity. I’m a cliché.
S
he turns towards me and seizes a t-shirt from the basket. “It’s a static caravan on a campsite. It’s not like you’ll be in a tent. Discos every night—”
“For children.”
“—entertainment—”
“For children.”
She purses her lips. “The holiday will be what you make of it.” Her eyes dart to the door and back again. She lowers her voice. “It’s all we can afford this year. You know, since your father lost that job.” She mouths the last words as though she’s ashamed to say them.
Dad used to teach at
a private school. It was a good job, bringing in a high salary. But they decided to cut back in the science department and now he’s had to take a job at a comprehensive school in Leeds. It’s an hour’s commute and less pay. I see less of him, and he spends a large portion of his salary on petrol. Mum’s a full time office manager, but her firm has had a freeze on pay-rises for the last three years, due to the recession.
“You should be proud of his new job,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I am,” she replies. “But your father isn’t. That’s why it’s easiest to avoid the subject.” A silence hangs for a moment. No matter what she says, I hear that tone in her voice, the one that speaks louder than her words. Now she can’t turn her nose up at the riff-raff at the office, or attend the Christmas prom at Dad’s old school wearing her one diamond necklace. She’s back to being a regular wife. “Mary, take these clothes up to your room and start packing.”
The bundle of clothes is thrust into my arms and I pull it to my body, inhaling the clean scent
. My feet pad across the carpet.
When I’m hal
fway to the hall, Mum calls out, “Hey, you never know, you could have a holiday romance.” She waggles her eyebrows for emphasis.
“In
Nettleby, North Yorkshire? I’d be lucky to find anyone under sixty,” I reply. But somehow the tension fades and we both laugh at the same time.
She pauses before she says, “You know
, I hope there is a nice boy in Nettleby. It would do you good.” Her eyes drift to the scars on my neck and the smile fades from my face.
I
shake the uneasy feeling away, the one that tells me my mum wants someone to make me feel attractive again. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it won’t be so bad. After everything that has happened in the last few months, it’ll be nice to spend some time with my parents. And to be honest, Nettleby does sound peaceful, and peace is what I could do with, right now.
My fingers fumble with the door handle to my room.
My room. The one place in this house I can call my own.
The summer has turned it into a hot house, with sunlight streaming through the attic window. Tiny specks of dust are illuminated
as they hang in the air like daylight stars. I flop down on the bed, the motion wobbling the mirror-ball I keep on my bedside table where it catches the light from the window. Squares of gold move along the pastel blue curtains, dance over my dressing table, and travel shakily across my MGMT poster.
I
bury my head in the duvet, inhaling the scent of lavender from Mum’s brand of washing powder. As much as we clash with each other, if she was hurt or died, I would come into my room, smell the lavender, and have the world pulled from under my feet. She’s a rock, and I have to remind myself of that, even when she’s
really
annoying.
She helped me get better.
Well, she tried.
As my mind drifts from daylight stars to daylight monsters, the temperature of the room dips, and my muscles tense.
A prickling cold spreads over my skin. Someone is here.
A light film of sweat forms
on my forehead as I inch myself up on my elbows. At the end of the bed stands a girl, about my age, and most definitely dead.
Not that you can tell.
Her blond hair falls into her eyes, which are ringed in black. She wears a grey hoody, with the hood down, and grey jogging bottoms without a cord or belt. Her blue eyes bore into mine. Her jaw opens to speak…
“’Sup, Mares? Give you
a fright did I? Couldn’t knock or owt, what with the… you know.”
“Inability to take corporeal form?”
I say.
“That’s the one.” She grins at me. “So what’s the news? The af
terlife is boring as hell.”
A shiver of guilt passes down my spine.
Did I forget to mention that my best friend is a ghost? Well, it’s complicated. I was in a mental institute at the time—so was Lacey—and we had a murderer to find. The day that he found us, I had expected to die; instead, he killed Lacey. He stabbed her in the back. Since then she’s stuck around.
“We’re going camping,” I say with a groan.
“Can you believe it?”
Lacey
leaps forward to grab my arm, but her form crackles like electricity and fails to make contact. “Damn it, stupid ghost form. Camping though, mate. That’s awesome! I used to love camping. Can I come?”
