Forty Degrees Below

Chapter 1

'The Hidden Room'  - It was a bright, crisp, autumnal morning. He entered the manor house and walked its entire length hanging a flag out of each window. It was a hunch that became an obsession. He went back outside, and walked around its perimeter confirming his suspicion; a flag did indeed hang from every window - except one.

 "There are things known, and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception." – Aldous Huxley.

Curtis was nearing completion of his fourth novel. The beginning was always the final piece in the jigsaw for him. He reasoned that you could never truly understand what you were composing, or how the prologue would take shape before the creation itself had been completed.

He signed it off, sat back, and smiled to himself. "The end of the beginning," he murmured. 

He gazed out the window at the setting sun; the sky was awash with hues of pinks, reds, and crimsons. He felt the warm summers breeze through the open window and watched the surfers attempting to make the most of the remnants of a failing surf. Further, down the coast, the city lights of Santa Barbara winked into life, and he could still make out the whites of the waves as they broke upon the shore.

The view, the atmosphere, the solitude had always been the most endearing attraction to him, rooting him in an earthly, yet fluid environment. He felt at home in his bolt hole surrounded by the familiar. This was his writing den, a place away from home where he could work undisturbed. The property was not ten minutes walk from the house, and with kitchenette, small bathroom, and a comfortable place to rest his head he had everything he needed. The best thing of all was the outlook, the source of his inspiration. It enabled him to work undisturbed for days at a time, but when he'd finished a project and came back up for air, he craved company; real company, from real people. Not the imagined ones he'd immersed himself in for the past few months.

Dusk fell, and he looked at his reflection in the window. He loved to write about the sense of mystery in life, and the veil between this world and the next was supposed to be at its most transparent at this time of day, but he found that familiarity could sometimes compromise his ability to observe oneself with that same level of detachment. I've become too familiar, he thought to himself. How wonderful it would be to free myself from the image in the glass staring back at me. 

The image smiled and he smiled back. It was only then that he noticed the colour of the reflections' eyes were of a somewhat different hue to his, similar to the unusual shape of its eyebrows, the colour of its hair, and the contrasting complexion of its skin. The reflection grew more vivid as dusk took hold. It was trying to mouth something to Curtis, to warn him, but he couldn't hear. Fearful, and unnerved, Curtis stood up, leaned closer, pressing an ear against the window pane. It was only then that he could hear the faint but distinct voice coming through. 

"It will change your life," it said. "You mustn't resist for he has a message."

"Who has a message?" Replied Curtis startled.

"He does!" it said, nodding, directing its gaze over Curtis's shoulder.