by Darcy Coates
“You are being kind. I know what I am.”
Clare bit her lip. She wanted to argue, but he was odd. She hadn’t been able to get a read on him at first, and it had terrified her. She had preferred to chance the snow than spend the night in his house. But that had been before she’d talked to him.
She thought she was starting to understand Dorran. He wasn’t strange in a bad way. He was just stilted and uncertain. He buried his discomfort under formality. And he was sad. That was what bothered her the most. He tried to hide it, but it slipped out occasionally, hidden in his expressions and movements. The tilt of his eyes. The way his smiles never seemed truly uninhibited. How methodical he made every motion. It seemed as though all of the life had been crushed out of him somehow.
He gently nudged her to sit upright and used the towel to squeeze the moisture out of her hair. Clare wanted to say something else, to find a way to tell him that he wasn’t too strange for the world and that he didn’t need to spend the rest of his life hiding in his secluded mansion. But she couldn’t find the right words.
“I think I fixed it well enough.” The towel dabbed across her forehead, catching the last drips. “No hair dryers, I’m afraid, but we can sit you beside the fire to dry it.”
“Thanks.” She touched her hair, relieved to finally feel clean again.
Dorran tipped the dirty water down the sink and left the towels in the empty basin. “Before you return to your room, would you mind taking a detour? I would like to show you something.”
“Sure.”
He lit two candles in the stove top, fixed them into candleholders, and gave Clare one. Then he led her to the door, switching off the kitchen’s lights as he passed them.
Clare pulled the coat tighter as they crossed the empty room and approached one of the doors in the back. Since he’d given her his coat, he only wore a shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”
“A little. But I don’t mind it. Careful here.”
He led her down five steps and into a stone room. A large bolted bronze door opposite them caught in their candlelight. Unlike the main parts of the house, the area hadn’t been well maintained. The bronze was tarnished, and dirt had accumulated between the stones lining the floor. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling to light the walls.
“Is this part of the house for the staff?” Clare guessed.
He gave her a quick smile. “Correct.”
A tall stone archway to Clare’s left drew her attention. She could see a step down but no farther. Shadows clustered inside the entryway, and she thought she could hear a very faint dripping noise coming from the space.
Dorran was focussed on the door ahead, though. The small window in it was too fogged for Clare to see through. Dorran put the candle on the ground while he unbolted the door and pulled it open. Then he motioned Clare into the room.
As she stepped through the doorway, lights flickered to life, starting right above her and reappearing every four feet down the long, rectangular room. The space was warmer than the rest of the house, enough that the cold no longer bit at Clare’s face. Shelves lining the walls were full of metal and wood implements. At least twenty raised garden beds were spaced evenly throughout the area, and organic smells filled her nose. After spending so long in the house’s stuffy hallways and rooms, being surrounded by something natural was like a breath of fresh air.
“Is this…”
“Our garden.” He stepped in behind her and closed the door. The lights were warmer than the kitchen’s, and they highlighted Dorran’s dark eyes and the line of his jaw. “It is expensive to have food delivered to the property, so most of what we eat is grown on-site. The gardens were dug up shortly before the family left. Sadly, the chickens and goats are gone too.”
She leaned over one of the garden beds. The soil looked rich and dark.
“If we have nothing but tinned vegetables and rice to eat, we will soon start craving fresh food. I thought it would be wise to restart the garden. It will use up our fuel faster but will help extend our food stores.”
Clare thought it was probably a smart move. She brushed her hand over the dirt. “It’s still warm.”
“It was heated until a few days ago. The insulation has protected it from the worst of the cold.” He pointed to the lights above them. “They’re full-spectrum bulbs, which imitate sunlight. They will need fuel to run. But we can save petrol by heating it through the furnace. That is my main motive for being cautious with the lights. If we budget carefully, we should have enough fuel to keep the garden lit and warm for a while.”
“It’s heated by a furnace? Like a real, wood-burning furnace?”
“Yes. In the basement, below our feet.” He paced along the garden beds, examining the freshly turned soil. “We have plenty of seeds. I thought we could start with plants with a short harvest time. Lettuce. Beans. Some of the seeds can be eaten as sprouts too. I will come back later and begin work.”
“Why don’t we start now?” Clare tilted her head. “I had a garden at my cottage. I can help.”
“I would appreciate it. But your arm is still healing, and you must be tired. Perhaps another day.”
She laughed. “You don’t have to worry about me so much. And I want to help. I think I’d go crazy if I had to stay in bed all day.”
“Hm. As long as you’re not too tired.” His eyes warmed. “I’ll see to reviving the furnace. You could begin planting. Gloves are on that shelf. Seeds are on the bench. I will be back within twenty minutes.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Clare pulled on a pair of thick gloves as she watched Dorran leave through the tarnished door. He seemed familiar with the staff’s areas of the house. Something told her that he was used to working in the garden. If she’d been stuck in the mansion with no freedom and no real job, she probably would have started looking for chores to do too.
The seeds were arranged in large labelled glass jars on a bench running across the back wall. The quantity surprised her. She was used to buying packets with a hundred or two hundred seeds for her own garden. Winterbourne had tens of thousands.
I guess the garden has been running for a long while. Feeding a large family and sixty staff three times a day would be no small feat.
The shelf also held an array of miniature stakes and pens. Clare used them to mark out the area she was planting. Her own garden was more of a hobby than a necessity, and she grew as many flowers as vegetables. Winterbourne’s garden was a different matter. She tried to guess how many plants would provide full meals for two people without planting so much that it became a waste. More challenging was the fact that the jars only listed the plant variety, with no instructions on how deep or far apart the seeds needed to be buried.
Clare set several rows of tomatoes and lettuce, which she had practice with, but hesitated on everything else. She liked to be useful, but Dorran had left the garden completely in her hands, and that was more pressure than she was comfortable with. Even if I get out of the house within a few days, Dorran will probably need the garden to get through the rest of the winter. I can’t mess it up for him.
She bit her lip as she stared at a jar of capsicum seeds. She couldn’t remember how it liked to be planted. She put it on the edge of the garden bed and went in search of Dorran. He’d said he would be in the basement, which she guessed was accessed by the archway they had passed on the way to the garden. Clare picked up her candle as she left, being careful to close the door behind her to keep the heat inside.
She approached the archway but stopped on the top step. No light came from the basement. Cool air rolled out of it, prickling her skin. She tucked her chin into the coat’s collar. The stairway made her uneasy, as though it exuded a toxic odour that her conscious mind couldn’t detect but her subconscious shuddered at. She stared into the black abyss, and all she wanted to do was turn and run.
Don’t let this house sweep you up in its aura. It’s just a basement. Nothing more. She took in a deep breath, held it, then steppe
d into the void.
Chapter Nine
The change in atmosphere was palpable. It covered Clare like water, sinking into the crevices in her clothes and saturating her. Her hair, still damp, chilled her. She held the candle ahead of herself so that the light could cover the walls, but the flame guttered as it fought against the frigid air.
“Dorran?” She tried to call for him, but the word came out as a gasp. Her only answer was a slow, steady dripping noise.
With each step she descended, she felt less connected to the real world. When she looked back, she could no longer see the archway, the garden, or any trace of light. It was just her and the darkness, wrapped around each other, tangled so badly that she began to worry they would never be separated again.
Her feet finally touched even ground. Clare’s breathing was shallow, but even so, the cold air invaded her body and robbed her warmth. She licked dry lips as she tried to see into the room. The candlelight caught on a handful of dulled shapes—something metal, something glass. She couldn’t identify any of them. She couldn’t see Dorran. But she could hear a scratching noise. It came from above her and below her all at once, like fingernails on stone or dying breaths dragged through rotting lungs.
“Dorran, answer me.”
A thud disturbed the stillness. She swung in its direction. Her candle flickered. She had never been bothered by the dark before, but at that moment, Clare felt as though she would rather die than be lost in the shadows in the basement. She held her hand around the flame to protect it and only began breathing again when the flame stabilised.
Soft, thudding footsteps echoed out of the darkness. Clare lowered her hand and squinted through the gloom. If Dorran was responsible for the sounds, he was working without a light. She took a step closer then another. Someone drew in a deep, rasping breath. She passed a tall wooden shelf. On it, dusty glass objects glittered. Wine bottles, maybe?
The scraping noise became louder. It hurt Clare’s ears and made her teeth ache. She silently begged it to stop. Motion became visible through the shadows ahead. Someone or something was bent low near a stone wall. Clare’s thin light was just enough to let her see shoulders rising and falling.
“Dorran?”
The figure turned towards her. Eyes glinted—horrible, inhuman eyes peering out from behind long, greasy hair. Then the figure darted away, escaping from her circle of light, disappearing into a narrow doorway in the stone wall.
A sharp, broken scream cut through the cold air. Clare didn’t realise it had come from her until she felt the ache in her throat. She stumbled backwards, and her shoulders hit one of the shelves. Muffled clinking noises surrounded her as the bottles rocked.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The thudding footsteps echoed around her, beating fast, like her own heart. The scraping noise joined it, louder this time. It surrounded her and overwhelmed her.
“Clare?” The voice was faint.
She turned towards it. In the distance, golden light glinted through the shadows. It promised safety. She ran for it. Her shin hit one of the shelves. She fell, gasping as cold stone scraped her hands and jarred her bandaged arm. A wave of pain rushed through the limb. The candle skittered over the floor and died in a splutter of wax.
“Clare!”
Footsteps drew nearer. She tried to stand, but trapped in the darkness and choking on the pain, she was too disoriented. She stumbled again and bent over, trying not to be sick. Then arms were around her, pulling her up. She was surrounded by warmth. When she opened her eyes, a lamp, larger and stronger than her own candle, was sitting beside her feet. It cut through the shadows to create a little oasis of light.
Dorran held her up so that she rested against his shoulder. He kept her steady, one hand on her back, the other holding her hand. His voice was tense. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
She sucked in ragged, uneven breaths. Her tongue felt heavy. She couldn’t form the words, and they fell out in an incoherent slurry. “I saw someone.”
“Clare?”
She shook her head, her mind a jumble. “I… I was looking for you.”
“Ah.” He exhaled. “Forgive me. This is the wine cellar. It is my fault—I should have shown you where to find the door to the basement.”
His hands were unexpectedly warm. The numbness was fading, but the panic was not. Clare glanced behind them, at the wall. “There—there’s someone down here.”
“What?”
Clare raised a hand towards where she’d seen the hunched shape. “I saw someone. I… I think it was a woman. She came out of the door in the far wall.”
Dorran stared into the darkness, confusion clear on his face, then he looked back at her. “Clare, there are no doors in the cellar. Just stairs leading to the main floor.”
“But…” She paused for a second, trying to clear the panicked fog from her head and the tightness from her voice. “There was a woman. She was digging at something. Digging at the stones, I think. When I got closer, she ran into the tunnel. It’s right there.” She pointed again. The lamplight, although stronger than the candle, still couldn’t reach the walls.
Dorran was silent. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Show me.”
He helped her to her feet. She stumbled, and he put his arm around her back to hold her steady then picked up the lamp with his spare hand. Moving cautiously, Clare led him past the shelves. Shadows danced around them with every step, slinking across the stone walls and darting over the ceiling. A thousand dust-caked bottles glittered out of the gloom.
Clare came to a halt facing the stretch of wall where she’d seen the woman. She was sure it was the right place. She recognised the erratic stone tiles lining the floor. But the doorway was gone.
“I…” Her throat tightened. She stepped out of Dorran’s support and approached the wall. The spot where there had been a gaping opening was nothing but rough, interlocked stones. She pressed her hands against them, feeling around the cracks, as she tried to make sense of it. “It was… I…”
“Clare.”
“It was right here!”
“Clare.” Dorran came up behind her and gently pulled her back from the wall.
Tears stung her cold face. She stared along the wall’s length, scanning both directions, but the surface was unbroken. There was a woman crouched on the ground. Crouched and scrabbling at the stone. When she saw me, she ran through the doorway that was right here. Right here…
She felt like she was unravelling. Her mind was fracturing, the pieces floating away, and as fast as she tried to grasp them and pull them back in, more were lost.
But she and Dorran were alone in the basement. There were no noises and no rasping breaths. They were the only ones there, encased in their little globe of light. And he was watching her, concern thick around his eyes, waiting for her to speak.
“I’m not crazy,” she whispered.
“No. Of course you’re not.” He pulled her closer, one hand brushing across her shaking back. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“I didn’t imagine it.” Her voice cracked. She didn’t know if he’d heard her.
“The light must have been creating tricks for your eyes. This house—it plays with your mind, especially if you are not familiar with it. It is a damned waking nightmare.” He was trying to give her an escape, an excuse.
And with the empty wall stretching endlessly behind them, she had no choice but to take it. “Yes.”
“Let’s get you back upstairs, where it’s warmer. And I’ll find you something to drink. You will feel better once you’re out of this maze of a wine cellar.”
She nodded. Her mind was at war, killing itself as it tried to hold on to reality. Dorran kept his hand on her back as he turned her towards the stairway. Clare stopped at its base and stared up, suddenly exhausted. The stairs seemed to go on forever.
“Here.” Dorran pulled her against his chest, scooped one arm under her legs, and lifted her as though she weighed nothing.
“Bed or fireplace?” he asked as he climbed to the third floor.
“Fire.” That was an easy question to answer. She was starved for warmth.
Dorran used his shoulder to bump the bedroom door open, then he placed her on the fireside rug. The embers were near dead, and the heat was leaking out of the room. Dorran knelt and fed wood into the fire until it was crackling again. Then he draped a quilt over Clare’s shoulders. “Will you be all right on your own for a moment?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t see him leave, but she heard the quiet click of the door as it shut behind him. She exhaled then pushed the blanket off and stood.
I’m not crazy. She stared at her hands, frustrated that they continued to shake. But there was no door. But I’m not crazy. But I know what I saw. But I’m not crazy…
She left the fire to approach the windows. The day was nearly gone. A golden sunset glittered through the falling snow. The forest was clearly visible, a ragged band of black stretching across the horizon. It continued to snow, but the storm was over.
Thank mercy. She wrapped her arms around herself as she choked on tears. The radio was within reach. It would be reckless to try for it that night, while the temperatures were brutal and with dusk setting in, but daylight was less than twelve hours away. She would speak to Beth. She would find a way to leave Winterbourne before it sent her truly insane.
The door creaked as it opened, and Clare flinched.
Dorran stood in the entrance, holding a tray with two bowls of soup. He smiled. “Come and sit by the fire with me, where it’s warm.”
Chapter Ten
That night was the most peaceful Clare had spent in Winterbourne. She and Dorran sat side by side on the rug by the fire, blankets wrapped around their shoulders as they ate the soup and talked. Dorran didn’t mention the scene in the cellar, and Clare was grateful for it. She still didn’t know what to think had happened. Or what to think of herself. Instead, she focussed on what was important—making contact with the outside world. Leaving.