by Darcy Coates
“A little longer. Maybe another week. But it is healing faster than I had hoped.” He reapplied the bandage. “I’ll get breakfast. Two minutes, and I’ll be back. Will you be all right for that long?”
“Of course.” She laughed. “Take longer if you want.” She tried to sound carefree, but as soon as Dorran was out of the room, her smile dropped. She dressed as quickly as she could then stood close to the fire, watching both doors.
Is it possible this really is some kind of paranoia? Delusions manifesting? It has to be, doesn’t it? Women with holes in their sides. Bones poking out. That can’t be real. But if it’s not, then what is it?
She chewed on her thumbnail as she paced in front of the flames. Believing that the building was haunted was a wild leap of logic, but at least it made a little more sense than the alternatives. If a house was going to have a ghost, Winterbourne would be an ideal contender. Old, opulent, full of horrible family secrets…
She’d read a handful of gothic books as a teenager. In one of them, the heroine had discovered that her husband-to-be was hiding his insane first wife in the attic. It had been a chilling scene. For a moment, Clare considered the idea that she might be living in a real-life re-creation of the story. Maybe Dorran wasn’t hiding a wife, but a family member could have been locked away for her own good and found a way to escape from her hidden room.
That theory didn’t hold up, though. Dorran had been sincere when he’d told her they were alone. She was sure of it. There had been no hint of any lie in his expression. He was just as confused and concerned as she was.
Besides, no one should have been able to survive the disfigurement the woman endured. Not for ten minutes. And certainly not for days.
That left two possibilities—ghosts or delusions. Dorran said he’s never heard any rumours of ghosts. And if the house really is haunted, wouldn’t someone else have seen the spirit? Surely I can’t be the only one.
She felt sick to her stomach. When the door clicked open, she reflexively flinched. But it was only Dorran. He’d promised two minutes, but she was pretty sure he’d returned faster than that. She checked that his bowl was full before she started eating.
It was easier to relax while he was around. He was reliable and safe, and he didn’t try to belittle or pick at what Clare had seen. They sat by the fire and talked about the outside world while they ate. Dorran wanted to know what her life was like, so Clare told him about her work at a bookstore. Remembering her old job felt strange. She’d only been gone for a week, but it felt like a lifetime. She realised she was probably fired by that point. She hadn’t turned up to work on Monday, and being uncontactable, they would eventually need to replace her.
“It wasn’t a bad place to work.” Seeing that Dorran had finished his meal, she drained the last of her soup. “I mean, every job has stress and annoyances, and some days you wish you could chase certain customers out of the building with a broom, but my coworkers were nice. And that makes the biggest difference.”
“Good people can make a bad situation bearable,” Dorran said.
“Exactly! There was one shift where everything went wrong. It was a Saturday, which is crazy to begin with, and then our terminal stopped working. I thought I was about to drop from exhaustion by the time I got home. But the other staff and I pulled together to get it done, and I felt kind of proud when I flipped the sign to Closed.” She put her bowl on the coffee table and pulled her legs up under herself. “What about you? Do you get along with any of your family?”
He hesitated, and Clare instantly realised her mistake. The family members who’d supported him hadn’t survived the fateful dinner. She pressed her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry—”
“Some of the staff are quite nice.” He smiled to let her know it was okay. “The doctor was good company, and I got along well with most of the gardeners. All of the staff supported my mother—she wouldn’t tolerate subversive employees—but at least they were not as extreme as her. Most of them were friendly.”
Clare lowered her hands. “I guess that must have helped.”
“Yes. It made this home feel less like a prison. And I was able to learn skills from some of them. Not all of my time spent here was unpleasant.”
He was more cheerful about it than Clare thought she would have been if their situations had been reversed. She followed his gaze to the fire. “Did you have any plans for today? I don’t want you to feel like you have to sit with me constantly.”
“I enjoy being with you. Enough that, yes, I am starting to neglect some very necessary work.” He chewed on his lip. “The garden needs to be a priority.”
Clare grimaced. He’d spent more than an entire day at her side without even looking at the plants. And she’d been selfish enough to welcome it. “You’d better go. They’ll need water.”
“Come with me. I can make you comfortable in the garden, and you will not have to be alone that way.”
She was desperate for a chance to get out of the room and began to rise. “Yes!”
“Steady.” Dorran came up beside her and put one arm around her shoulders. The other slipped under her legs, and in an instant, he’d lifted her off the ground.
Clare grabbed at his sleeve. “I can walk!”
“It is a long way. This is safer.” Unfazed, he plucked a blanket off the bed, then he used his shoulder to push the door open and carried her towards the stairs.
Clare kept her hold on his shirt as Dorran smoothly moved through the maze of passages to reach the lowest floor. It was impossible not to feel the way his body pressed against hers. His muscles shifted under his shirt with every breath, warm and firm. She kept her head down so he wouldn’t notice the colour spreading across her face.
The wind continued to beat at the house, clawing more holes in the ceiling. Even with the blanket thrown over her, Clare felt the chill. Their breaths plumed in the frosty air.
When they reached the hothouse, Dorran shifted his grip on her to unbolt the door. A gust of warm air rolled over them, and he stepped through and shut the door before more could escape. He carried Clare to where a little reading chair had been placed in one corner and carefully set her down.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Warm enough?”
She grinned and gave him a light shove. “Don’t fuss.”
He smiled back then turned towards the plots of dirt. Clare couldn’t resist. She pushed the blanket off her shoulders and approached the nearest bed.
Tiny green leaves poked out of the earth. She bent to read the marker at the end of the row and was thrilled to see they were the tomatoes she’d planted.
“They’re coming along nicely.” Dorran had fetched a watering can and was trickling liquid over green sprouts in a different row. “If I can keep it at an optimal temperature and leave the lights on a few hours longer each day, we should be able to beat the estimated growing times.”
“Good.” She gently caressed one of the bright-green leaves. It was tiny and delicate, and Clare felt her heart swell with hope and nerves. Their survival most likely relied on those sprouts. She was painfully aware of how easily they could be broken—the green shoot, barely thicker than a thread, seemed horribly close to disaster. A misplaced hand, too much water, or even a strong wind could be enough to kill it.
She tried not to focus on how vulnerable they were. Dorran knew what he was doing. He moved from garden bed to garden bed, watering the plants that needed it and checking every row. A small, content smile grew as the plants met his approval.
“I’m going to add more fuel to the furnace.” He placed the watering can back onto its bench and dusted his hands on his pants.
“What can I do?”
“Can I convince you to sit and rest?”
She pulled a face, and Dorran laughed.
“All right. I’d like to have a few new rows of spinach. Could you make a start on that?”
“Yes, definitely!” She rounded the bed to the
shelf of seeds and began shuffling through them while Dorran left. She found the jar full of tiny brown seeds and scoped out an empty plot of dirt for them.
She had only just started digging a trench with her fingertip when a sense of unease broke through the calm. Her pulse kicked up. Her scalp prickled. Slowly, she turned to face the door.
A shape stood on the other side of the frosted window. Clare’s smile died as she stared at it. The figure lifted one hand—its fingers knobbly and far, far too long—and pressed it against the glass. Its head tilted to one side as they stared at each other through the blurred screen. Then it stepped back, fading into obscurity again, leaving Clare clutching the jar against her chest as she fought for breath.
Chapter Nineteen
A war waged through Clare. Instincts screamed for her to stay where she was, to keep hidden in the greenhouse with its thick metal door and warm, comforting light. But that would leave Dorran alone and unaware in the basement.
It’s not real, her mind whispered. There is no need to run to Dorran because he’s not in any danger. He wants you to fight this stuff. Resist it. Don’t give it power.
But the small risk that she might be wrong—that Dorran could actually be in real peril—was too sharp to ignore. She took a breath and, still holding the seeds tightly, pushed on the garden’s door.
She was alone in the room. Dreading the loss of light but knowing the plants needed their warmth preserved, Clare shut the door behind herself and shuddered as the gloom flooded around her.
A lit candle rested on a holder on the opposite wall. It was the only light in the space. To Clare’s right, the gaping archway led to the wine cellar. As she watched it, she began to imagine she could hear whispers floating out of the darkness. The longer she stared, the louder the echoes grew. They dragged through her mind like nails on a chalkboard. She didn’t realise she was biting her lip until she tasted blood.
Clare backed away from the arch. The whispers began to fade. She turned to the door in the opposite wall. It was smaller and narrower, but she could feel traces of warmth drifting out from under the wood. She gave the wine cellar one last wary glance then stepped through the basement door.
The metal stairs were steep and narrow, and the wall had no railings. Clare walked with one shoulder brushing against the stone to her left and a hand reached in front of herself. Refracted light highlighted the edge of each curving step. The staircase led her deeper and deeper under the house, so deep that her legs began to shake and her lungs burned. She began to worry that the stairway might never end. Then it levelled out and opened into an enormous cavern.
The room was made of bare rock walls. Five huge, funnel-like furnaces were spaced through the area, with large stretches of bare ground between them. One of the furnaces was lit. Clare gripped her coat tightly as she approached it.
Dorran had taken off both his jacket and shirt as he fed wood into the furnace. Sweat shone on his muscles and ran down his back. In the red light and dancing shadows, he almost looked like something mythical.
His bruises were starting to heal. They had darkened but no longer looked as raw. He crouched as he checked the furnace’s glowing insides.
“Hey,” Clare called, trying to sound cheerful.
Dorran jolted at her voice then stood and crossed to her, his eyebrows heavy. “Are you all right? You weren’t supposed to leave the garden. Did something happen?”
“Oh, no, just…” She swallowed thickly. “Wanted to see the furnace.”
His eyes flicked to the seed jar in her hand, and she knew he’d guessed the lie. He was quiet for a heartbeat then beckoned her forward. “Of course. You haven’t seen it yet. Let me show you.”
He gestured to the furnace he’d been working at then the other four scattered about the cavern. “These were designed to heat the lower levels of the house. This one, of course, directs heat up to the garden’s floor. The others go to the dining room, the library, the foyer, and the main sitting room.”
“It’s hot.” Even twenty paces away, Clare could feel the heat radiating out of the fire. It was no wonder Dorran was sweating. A bead of liquid trickled between strongly defined shoulder blades, and Clare hurriedly averted her eyes.
“It’s not the most economical way to do things,” he admitted. “It heats slowly, but once the warmth has seeped through the floor, it holds for a long time. Normally, the fire wouldn’t be this intense, but we’re playing catch-up.”
He wiped his forearm across his forehead then beckoned for her to follow him back towards the stairs. “See that chute in the wall? That connects to the back of the property and lets the staff drop chopped wood into here without having to climb the stairs.”
A small mountain of logs had developed below the metal opening. They all seemed to have come from the same tree type, and Clare guessed the family had been cutting into the pines that surrounded them.
Dorran stopped next to a bucket of water near the stairs, drenched a cloth, and began to wash off. Clare was caught between the impulse to turn away and the irrepressible temptation to watch. She’d never met a man like Dorran before. He was fascinating. Strong neck muscles merged into wide shoulders. As water dripped over his back, Clare was reminded of one of her earliest impressions of him: that he had been carved out of stone by some master artist.
She realised she was staring again and abruptly turned to admire the vast space instead, her face hot. “Does this go under all of the house?”
“Not quite, but nearly.” He didn’t seem to have noticed her awkwardness and motioned towards the ceiling. “There are no furnaces for the staff areas except, of course, the gardens. The house’s footprint is a bit larger than this. It was designed almost as an extravagant waste of money. So much space, so much effort, just to make the floor in a room warm. I believe it was installed to create a luxurious experience for any guests. Since the family doesn’t winter here, we almost never use the furnaces. The normal fireplaces work faster and are easier to control.”
“I guess sometimes people have things just so that they can say they have them.”
“Precisely.” He slipped his shirt on and buttoned it up. That was a relief and a disappointment all at once. “I’m about done here for now. Would you like to go back to the gardens? Or I could take you to your room.”
Awed by the space and the massive brick structures, Clare had almost forgotten about the figure she’d seen outside the hothouse. She guessed that had been Dorran’s intention: to talk until she didn’t feel scared anymore. It had worked.
She looked down at the jar of seeds. “We still have more work to do in the garden, don’t we?”
“I can take care of it later if you prefer.”
“No. I want to help. Just as long as you stay with me.”
He dipped his head. “Of course I will. Let me help you up the stairs.”
The rest of the day passed quickly. Dorran didn’t leave Clare alone again. When he went to make lunch, she followed. When she needed the bathroom, he waited outside the door, where she could still hear him.
By the time they returned to the bedroom, they had planted dozens of rows of seeds. Some of the plants that had sprouted would grow quickly. Others wouldn’t be ready to harvest for four or five months. Even though they likely wouldn’t need them by that point, Dorran had wanted to plant them anyway as a precaution.
Clare slept well that night. Occasionally, she thought she heard scraping, scrabbling noises chasing her through her dreams. But whenever she woke, she found Dorran not far away—either sleeping on the other side of the bed, pacing near the windows, or reading in one of the wingback chairs.
He kept the fire hot through the night. When Clare got up the following morning, she didn’t feel how cold the day was until she approached the windows. The bite of winter still seeped through, hard and angry. She thought the temperature might still be dropping. Snow continued to fall from heavy dark-grey clouds.
They slipped into something like a routine. Dorran
was unbelievably patient. Clare didn’t think she would have had the stamina to revolve her life around another person, but he did it almost automatically.
They alternated their time between the garden and the bedroom. There were dozens of rooms in the house that Clare wasn’t familiar with—libraries, ballrooms, smoke rooms, and parlours—the kinds of spaces that rarely existed in modern houses but seemed perfectly natural at Winterbourne Hall. Their excursions into those other areas were infrequent, though. With just two of them, there wasn’t the time or any reason to try to heat the whole house. If Dorran wanted to pick up a new book from the library, they would don their jackets, leave the warm, safe rooms, and brave the near-freezing temperatures in the rest of the house for the shortest amounts of time possible.
Clare still saw the phantoms and still heard them. They followed her in her mind if not in reality. She could hear their soft, patient scratching whenever she listened, as well as their rasping, gasping breaths. And sometimes, especially when she was tired or confused, she would look up and see the shadows lurking in the hallways or hidden in the rooms’ corners, watching her.
She never said anything to Dorran, but she thought he guessed. He’d developed a habit of distracting her whenever she stared at one of the clumps of darkness for too long. He would pull her attention to something solid and concrete, such as a book, a task, or even just easy chatter.
And he kept the lights on for her. Wherever they went, he turned on lights, chasing out the shadows and leaving the space bright and clear. Clare tried to argue. There was no room for wastefulness when they needed the fuel to power the hothouse. Dorran’s response was always the same. “It isn’t a waste.”
She could see worry in his eyes. Desperation, even. She hated being a burden. He never said or did anything to make her feel like one, but she knew what she was. The poison’s effects were slow to recede. She grew tired easily and couldn’t handle long flights of stairs without becoming breathless.
Clare did what she could to be useful. She chopped herbs while Dorran diced and fried the frozen meat to mix into the soup. She matched him in tending to the garden, monitoring humidity and heat levels, and holding his ladder steady when he needed to replace a blown bulb. When she grew too tired to do that, she would sit and read for Dorran while he worked. The days almost always ended the same. She would doze off in the seat in the room’s corner and wake up later that night in her bed, with the book—its place marked with a bookmark—lying on her bedside table, and Dorran within reaching distance.