There’s something wrong with Haddon Hall…
In 1876, Eleanor Teague lives in a lonely house far from the glamorous London Society she once knew. Confined to Haddon Hall by agoraphobia, bedevilled by nightmares of the death of her daughter, and haunted by the guilt of a terrible crime she committed, Eleanor depends on the household servants and on her husband Ezra, who is kind, patient… and controlling.
But when an apparition appears at her bedside, and mysterious voices urge her to find the ‘Shadow House’, she’s convinced an uncanny presence dwells within the walls of Haddon Hall, and that the staff are lying to her – they, in turn, fear she’s descending into madness.
As Eleanor’s world starts to fracture, the very foundations of Haddon Hall seem to shake. Why is the attic room locked? What is the Shadow House? Who is the strange woman in the woods?
The shocking truth will shatter everything Eleanor thought she knew about her life.
A haunting, high-concept thriller with a jaw-dropping twist, The Strange Lives of Eleanor Teague will enthral readers of John Marrs, Gillian McAllister and Stuart Turton.
Reviews for M.K. Hill:
‘Sharp, funny, moving and tremendously exciting’ The Times
‘Grips from the start and never lets up’ Marcel Berlins
‘Thoroughly enjoyable’ Daily Mail
‘Creepy, convincing and kept me gripped’ Peter James
‘Absorbing and twisty’ Mark Edwards
‘Dark, gripping and fast-paced’ Katerina Diamond
‘Superb, smart, seat-edge stuff’ William Shaw
‘Bloody brilliant’ Asia Mackay
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1
The days drag in Haddon Hall.
In this secluded place far from the busy life Eleanor used to know, the quiet atmosphere is an oppressive weight. And because she cannot leave its four walls – is unable even to take a single step outside the property – the minutes and hours accumulate at their own lethargic pace. Sometimes it feels to Eleanor that a single day lasts an eternity, despite the grave attempts of the grandfather clock keeping time in the entrance hall to hurry it along.
But tomorrow will not be one of those days. It is a day to look forward to, a day that can’t come quick enough.
Ezra is coming home.
Eleanor wants to help the staff as they bustle about preparing for his return. Seemingly every banister must be polished, every f loor mopped, every piece of silverware raised to a glittering shine. Her offers of assistance are dismissed by Mrs Knox in her usual brisk manner.
As soon as she picks up a decorative object with a view to giving it a quick wipe, the little porcelain shepherdess in her pretty bonnet or the glass vase which already sparkles, it is swiftly taken from her, and she is shooed away.
‘The best way for you to help, ma’am,’ the housekeeper tells her sternly, ‘is by resting your good self so that you are in fine fettle for your husband’s arrival!’
But how can Eleanor rest when there is so much to do, and when she longs to be diverted from her own agitation?
Ezra is coming home!
In the end, she must make do with offering helpful suggestions to Mrs Knox, and Mr Thorogood and to Lucy, and be told that everything is in hand and that, come the morning, there will not be a single speck of dust or smudge or smear in all of Haddon Hall. Not, she thinks, that there ever is.
But if the day passes with an air of excitement and expectation, she has reason to fear the time when darkness falls and bedtime approaches, for that is when the bad dreams come.
That very night Eleanor is trapped in a familiar torment, where nightmare meets memory.
The urgent voice is faint, an echo from far away or long ago.‘Hear me, can you hear, Elean… Come to the…’
The voice is swept away by the roar of a raging river. In her dream, she struggles to stay afloat in the fast-flowing current. Coughing, spluttering, swallowing bitter mouthfuls of icy water. Her flailing limbs beginning to numb, she lifts her head in panic and desperation.
She can’t see her daughter; she can’t see Mia.
A final gulp of air and she is dragged into the undertow. Tumbling, spinning, Eleanor is sucked into freezing darkness. The pressure in her skull builds. She doesn’t know if her arms or legs are moving, she can’t feel anything but a numbing, leaden cold.
Her thoughts become sluggish. Eleanor dully glimpses her own hand in front of her face, white as bone in the murky, frigid depths. The fingers are splayed, ready to reach for her daughter. But Mia is gone, her body swept away.
Losing consciousness, Eleanor sinks, arms and legs spreadeagled, as if in the vastness of space. Time slows. The skirts of her dress undulate with the slow grace of an angel’s wings. She drops into the depths, falling away from the world.
The last thing she sees – perhaps it is a phantom image conjured by her failing mind – are two beams of light shooting up from the blackness below.
Suspended in the water between them is Mia.
Lungs filled to bursting with freezing water, Eleanor cannot scream.
‘Come to the Shadow House…’ The distant voice is strangely familiar. ‘Mia is… needs you… waiting for…’
Eleanor jerks upright in the dark room. Gasping for air, drenched in hot sweat yet shuddering with cold. Her heart pounds.
Despite her dream of drowning, her mouth is dry and sticky, her frozen hands and feet like leaden weights. Thrashing off the bedclothes, she moves her stiff fingers and toes to force her jagged nerves back to tingling life.
And when her eyes adjust to the dark, she sees someone stood at the end of the bed.
© 2026 Pellerin Books. All rights reserved.
This is an excerpt from The Strange Lives of Eleanor Teague by M.K. Hill, published by Pellerin Books. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without prior written permission of the publisher.
