by Darcy Coates
I shouldn’t have left Dorran alone. I should have insisted on going with him in case he needs help, in case he doesn’t see her coming.
A hundred scenarios, all sickening, played out in Clare’s mind. She tried to listen to the house to see if she could hear what was happening, but no noises reached her room. Clare squeezed her hands together until the knuckles ached. The wind was relentless, wearing down her patience. She stood and began pacing. She went to the window and stared across the unblemished blanket of snow that coated the landscape. The storm had cleared, and the sun was rising, but her surroundings were no easier to discern. Everything was the same shade of blurred, glaring white. Even the forest in the distance was barely distinguishable except for the ribbon of dark-brown trunks visible underneath their snowy caps.
Please, Dorran. Be careful.
She crossed to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. She went through the bathroom to the conjoined bedroom and tried its door, but Dorran had locked that as well.
A new nightmarish scenario played through her mind. What will happen if Dorran never returns? The doors were massive, and their locks were heavy metal. She didn’t think she was strong enough to beat them down. Jumping from the third-floor window would probably kill her, no matter how fluffy the snow looked. If something happened to Dorran, she would be trapped there until she starved.
Clare returned to her own bedroom. She paced from the fire to the bed and back. Dorran had left his coat hanging on a hook by the door. He would be cold without it. She chewed at the corner of her thumb. Then a soft knock at the door made her catch her breath.
“It’s just me,” Dorran called. “Everything is fine.”
Thank goodness, was her first thought, followed closely by, Did he find the woman?
The key scraped against metal as he unlocked the door. When he stepped through, he looked tired. He gave Clare a small, brief smile before crossing to the fireplace and returning the poker to its holder. He didn’t meet her eyes. “There is no one.”
“But…” She felt choked as she moved from the closed door to Dorran. “Did you look everywhere?”
“I did. Every single room.”
“What about the wine cellar?”
“Yes, there as well.” He turned to face her, held out a hand, then let it drop back to his side. “Sometimes intense dreams can seem like reality—”
“No.” She shook her head furiously and crossed her arms. “I didn’t dream it. I was awake. And this is the third time I’ve seen her. There’s someone else in this house.”
“Clare.” He closed the distance between them and grasped her forearms. His voice was very gentle. “When my family leaves for Gould, we have a count to ensure all parties are present. Every single man, woman, and child was packed and embarked on either the bus or one of the cars. Everyone.”
“Maybe… maybe…”
“When I left the group, I left alone. I walked back along the road alone. The blizzard set in before I found you. No one could have followed me. And even if they had, the doors and windows have all remained closed.”
Angry, confused tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She tried to step out of Dorran’s hands, but even though he never held her hard enough to hurt, he didn’t let her go.
“I don’t know what’s happening, Clare. But I promise this house only holds two people—you and myself.”
“There’s got to be…” Her voice was strangled. “I’m not crazy. I’m not imagining it. Are… do…” Again, the lump in her throat caught her words. “Does this house have any… any stories about ghosts? A maid, maybe, who died? With… with an injury in her side?”
His reply was a whisper. “Ghosts? No. Not in this house.”
“I’m not crazy.”
He looked incredibly, intensely sad. His head dropped, and he spoke so softly that she wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. “How can I make this better? How can I help you?”
She knew the answer to that question. “Let me go to my car for the radio.”
He took a slow, ragged breath. Clare couldn’t stand it any longer and leaned forwards to rest against Dorran. Slowly at first, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around her back. The embrace was gentle, and Clare hid her face in his chest as she finally let the tears escape.
“All right,” he said, and his voice was just as tight as hers was. “All right. We will both go.”
Chapter Twelve
They didn’t try to debate the figure Clare had seen. There was nothing else they could say without arguing in circles. But in an unspoken agreement, she and Dorran stayed close together through that morning’s routine.
She could feel him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She wished she could say something to make things normal again. If she said it had all been a dream, that she’d been trapped in a fog of sleep when she’d seen the woman, she knew he would accept that, and the tension would be over. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie.
And she still couldn’t explain what she’d seen. The gash in the woman’s side had been large and old. The flesh had begun to dry and turn dark as though it had been exposed to the air for too long. She’d looked demented. But she’d moved towards Clare with a purpose, like she wanted something. And she had only fled when Clare screamed.
I’m not imagining it. But already, doubt was starting to seep in. Not trusting her own eyes was a horrible thing, but her conviction crumbled with every passing minute.
She knew Dorran thought the house was affecting her, that the high walls and grim furniture were making her paranoid. He turned on every light they passed as they made their way through the building. When he spoke to her, his tone was warm and encouraging. He was trying to help, but in some ways, his kindness made it worse. She didn’t want to be coddled. She just wanted to know she wasn’t crazy.
One thing held her together. They were going to get the radio. For the first time in four days, she would have some contact with a world other than Winterbourne, and she felt like that by itself would make everything right.
Dorran was being cautious about the trip. He went through the house, collecting layer upon layer of clothes for Clare. Two sets of socks—one to keep her feet warm, the other to keep them dry. Jackets and layers of pants that needed their cuffs rolled up to fit her, followed by gloves that were a little too big but secured with twine tied around the wrists. Finally, a knit hat and a thick wool scarf to wrap across her face.
“These are some of the lowest temperatures the area has seen,” he said when he caught Clare frowning at the outfit. “And it’s a long walk.”
She was sure he was overreacting. She lived not far away. The winters could get bitingly cold and had never been bad enough to require more than a good thermal coat. But she also knew Dorran didn’t want her coming at all. So she swallowed her objections.
She felt a little better when he went through the same process for himself, wrapping on layers of clothes. And she had to admit it was effective. Even though the house was like a fridge, she felt pleasantly warm.
Finally, Dorran boiled water and filled two insulated flasks. He tied one to Clare’s belt and one to his then added a small toolbox.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded. “Good. We’re going to the shed along the side of the house first. It has snowshoes and shovels, which we will need to reach your car. Follow in my wake. Call out if you become stuck.”
“Roger that,” she said, trying to inject some lightness into the situation, but even though Dorran’s eyes scrunched up in a smile, he didn’t laugh.
They approached the front doors. Dorran looked her over a final time, seeming to run through some kind of internal checklist, then, satisfied, he wrenched open one of the double doors.
Clare’s heart sank. The snow had built up against the door nearly to her chin. It created a solid wall of white. More flakes drifted in through the narrow opening to melt on the tile floor.
“Do you think you can manage this?” Dorran
asked.
She hardened her expression. “Yep.”
“All right. Come here. I’ll help you up.”
He gripped her around her waist and lifted. Clare scrambled on top of the snowbank, feeling it slip and compact under her, then finally got enough momentum to tumble down the other side. She rolled, skidding on the snow, and finally came to a halt in the valley. A moment later, Dorran followed her. He was a little more graceful and stayed on his knees as he slid down the slope. When he reached Clare, he offered his hand and pulled her up.
She stood, felt her balance wobble, then regained it. She adjusted the scarf over her face and gave Dorran a thumbs-up. He nodded then beckoned for her to follow.
The snow was cold, but the wind was infinitely worse. Even bundled up, Clare could feel it snatching at her warmth and trying to worm in through the layers of clothing. It whistled around them, beating flurries of snow against their bodies and screaming in Clare’s ears. Dorran kept up a fast pace, but every few steps, he looked over his shoulder to check on Clare. She felt faintly pleased that she was able to keep up with him.
Their path led them alongside the manor. The stones had been caked in ice, giving it a hostile, spiky texture. Clare sank to her waist in the snow, making every step an effort. Sometimes she stumbled and had to use her hands to clamber back to her feet. Dorran had a better footing, but he seemed to be struggling too.
They fought their way around the building. A mound in the snow appeared up ahead, and when Clare squinted, she realised she could make out the top part of a hut. Dorran quickened his pace as they neared it, then he dropped to his knees and began digging to clear a way into the building.
Clare knelt beside him, and together, they scraped armfuls of snow away from the door. When the handle was finally revealed, Dorran took a key out of his back pocket and crouched to see the lock. He struggled for a minute to unlock the frozen metal. The door swung into the hut, and he motioned for Clare to slide in.
She took a quick breath to brace herself, turned around to point her legs at the opening, and dropped in. Her boots thudded as they hit the floor, and she stepped back to let Dorran follow.
As soon as he was inside, he slammed the door and pulled the scarf away from his face. “Are you holding up all right?”
“Great,” she said, trying to make her expression match her voice. The hike had worn her down more than she had expected. The blistering cold and exercise had combined into a surreal sensation—her core was hot, but her limbs were chilled. Despite the layers, she was shaking. She promised herself she would never doubt Dorran’s judgement about clothes again.
The cabin they’d entered was small and crowded. Dozens of shelves were stacked full of gardening equipment, most of it rusty and cobwebbed. Clare guessed this was another part of the house that its owner never visited.
Dorran pulled off his hat and ruffled stray flecks of snow out of his hair. “It is a longer walk to the forest. If you are tired, you could return to the house. I can reach the car alone.”
“I’m good to keep going.”
“I promise I won’t think badly of you if—”
She elbowed his side and grinned. “Stop trying to talk me out of it. I’m coming.”
He sighed, but it was parsed through a smile. “Very well. Let’s get you some snowshoes. That will make the hike a little easier, at least.”
A row of the shoes had been stacked against the back wall. Dorran picked out a set and fit them under Clare’s boots. He checked and double-checked the fasteners, then he had Clare walk up and down the cramped cabin to make sure they weren’t likely to fall off. Once he was satisfied, he fitted his own and retrieved a shovel and pickaxe from one of the shelves. Then he opened the door and again lifted Clare so that she could scramble over the bank of snow, slipping and kicking awkwardly. He threw the shovel and pickaxe after her then hauled himself out and closed the cabin’s door behind them.
The snowshoes were unwieldy, and Clare had to struggle to get standing. When she did, she held out a hand to carry one of the implements, but Dorran just chuckled and shook his head. He tugged his scarf back into place, put the tools over his shoulder, and set out towards the forest.
The snowshoes made a world of difference for crossing the open yard. It still took effort, but she no longer felt like she was about to topple with every step.
As they passed the house’s front again, Dorran nodded to the left. “If you ever leave Winterbourne alone, be careful not to stray too far in that direction. There is a pond, and it is most likely liquid right now.”
Clare stared at him. “Liquid?”
“I am not joking.” He laughed. “The furnace in the basement directs heat towards the garden. But it has an automatic valve to redirect the flow of air outside if it ever starts to rise above a certain temperature. That release valve channels heat out near the lake. It won’t be enough to make it warm, but it won’t be solid ice, even in this weather.”
Dorran must have been able to recognise the courtyard’s layout under the snow because he led them along the easiest path, weaving around obstacles and keeping them on level ground. Before long, the snow flattened out. Clare guessed they had left the courtyard and were in what must have been a field separating the house’s grounds from the forest. The wind was louder and harsher without the hedges to buffer it.
She kept her gaze fixed on the line of trees ahead. The forest encircled the estate, winding around them. The day had low visibility, but seeing the trees was still easier than it had been during the snowstorm.
Dorran yelled to be heard through the wind. “The road is straight ahead. A path leads from our property’s driveway to it, though it will be submerged in snow by now. We have a better chance striking through the forest, where the trees will have sheltered the ground at least a little.”
She had no breath to reply, so she nodded instead. Dorran adjusted the tools over his shoulder and put his head down as he forged on.
A harsh flash made them both freeze. Clare’s first thought was that someone had taken a photo of them, but that was impossible—they were alone on the icy terrain. Dorran turned to face her, and his eyes, the only part of his face visible, reflected Clare’s own confusion.
Then a deep rumble followed the flash, and her breath caught. Lightning.
Dorran stared into the distance, squinting, and Clare followed his gaze. The sky had turned a sickly green colour near the horizon.
“What is it?” Even though she yelled, the wind snatched away her words.
Dorran shook his head. “It… it may be hail.”
“Is it safe to keep going?”
He looked from the skyline to the forest, then at the house, and finally at Clare. He stomped one shoe to clear the snow from it as he looked back at the sky.
“Dorran?”
“We will press on a little farther. But be prepared to turn back if the storm nears.”
She nodded, and Dorran began walking again. He’d increased his pace, and Clare had to breathe in gasps as she struggled to keep up with him. Every few paces, he looked over his shoulder to check on her. The rest of the time, he alternated his attention between the green-grey haze in the sky and the forest’s edge.
They were getting closer to the trees. They passed a mound of snow to the left. The groundskeeper’s cottage. She’d seen it from the window the day before. Its roof had been coated, but the walls and windows were still visible. Now only traces of grey wood peeked out between the snow banked over it.
Another heavy rumble shook Clare. It reverberated through her, vibrating every atom of her body. Another lightning flash followed immediately, along with a second, closer, crack of thunder.
Dorran stopped. He dropped the tools and stared at the storm. While only one corner of the sky had been tinged green before, now half the heavens were dark. He shook his head and began backing up. “It is moving too quickly.”
“The forest is close.” Clare could distinguish the individual trunks, frosted
with snow, their boughs weighed down until they sagged. “We’ll be sheltered in there.”
“No.” He kept shaking his head as he grabbed Clare’s arm and tugged her back. “We have to go. We have to go now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Clare wanted to argue, but the alarm in Dorran’s voice was sharp. She knew better than to ignore his caution. She turned, and together, they ran for Winterbourne.
More thunder rumbled behind them, but this time it didn’t fade. It grew louder.
Not thunder. Hail, Clare realised. Hail beating on the trees.
She chanced a look behind them. The horizon had become a haze, almost like dense fog had fallen over the forest. The trees trembled where they were touched by hail.
The sour taste of fear flooded her mouth. The storm was moving fast, faster than anything she’d seen before. They would take at least ten minutes to reach the house, even running. The hail would be on them in seconds.
Dorran yanked her arm. “The cottage,” he yelled, his words almost drowned out by the thunder of a million spits of ice whipping into each other. Clare looked to her right and saw the snow-coated mound. It was close. She followed Dorran as they sprinted for it.
A new noise joined the thunderous roar. Subtle thumps sounded as hail impacted the soft snow. The noises blended together, becoming almost painfully loud. Clare didn’t spare the time to look behind them. The cottage was close, no more than twenty meters.
An icy stone impacted the snow ahead of her. She didn’t see the hail itself, but she saw the hole it had created. Then another landed, above and to the right. Hail the size of her fist drove into the snow like meteors.
Dorran gasped and staggered. Clare reached out to him, and he yanked her against his chest, shielding her.
“Go,” he yelled.
She lurched towards the shelter. Dorran followed, leaning over her.
A hailstone clipped her shoulder, and she hissed. Dorran’s hand pressed over her head to protect it. She felt him flinch as another stone hit his back. They closed the distance between them and the cottage. Clare dropped to her knees. Her head rested against the frost-painted wood as she began digging snow away from the door. Dorran leaned over her. A hailstone hit her thigh, and hot pain bloomed out from the spot. She dug deeper. The stones created a thunderous tempo as they pummelled the shack’s roof, the snow, and the two stranded humans.