The House

Chapter 30 - Day 3: Rainy Intrusion

Am I going insane?

I'm shaking so much; I barely have any control over my muscles, and I don't resist when David pulls me into his arms. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and he is wet, his hair dripping with rain. I can clearly see the trail of muddy bootprints he'd left on his trek from the kitchen to the front door and then to me.

I lean my head into his chest, gaining strength from his presence, not protesting when he strokes a hand over my hair.

"How did you get the van behind the house?" I finally ask when the worst of my terror subsided enough for me to breathe normally. "There's no road..."

"There is now... I bundu bashed, using the truck. There used to be a track between the house and the greenhouse; it's just really overgrown with weeds right now; I was going to start clearing it today."

I hold onto him a bit longer, searching every visible corner of the foyer and living area and analysing each shadow from the safety of his arms. I have no idea what it was that I heard before because we seem to be quite alone here now. So far, nothing new has been added, and nothing has been removed. There's been no movement at all.

"You really didn't see anybody or anything on the patio just now?"

"No, just wind and water. Don't worry; the door won't blow open again. I've locked it and used the deadbolt as well," he assures me, still stroking my hair. He is shivering! The poor guy is on the verge of dying of hypothermia, and I'm holding onto him as though I'm the drowned rat in need of rescue.

"Oh!" he suddenly exclaims. "There is a big branch on the patio; it must've been torn from a tree and blown there by the wind. This storm is hectic; I barely made it to the truck. That's why I decided to drive it to the back door. I didn't want to fight through it again."

A branch? Is that possible? Did I see a branch tangled with way too much imagination?

David is shaking with cold, and I force my cramped hands to let him go and pull myself from his embrace.

"You're wet. I'm sorry; you should get yourself sorted. I'm fine."

I'm not, but I'll be even less fine if he dropped dead at my feet; besides, he is suffering a lot more than I am. David helps me to my feet, and we cross the floor to the bathroom. He is about to enter it, and suddenly I'm attacked by overwhelming panic, grabbing his arm, feeling like an idiot, but I cannot let go.

I want to say something wise and wonderful, but nothing will sound sane or like the kind of thing a 23-year-old woman should be saying. Whatever is going to come out of my mouth is going to sound like the terrified begging of a toddler.

"It's okay; I'll leave the door open."

"I'm sorry," I mutter, but I have no pride left. "I won't look, I promise."

"I'm not shy," he grins, and that smile sears into my heart, spreading warmth throughout my chest and chasing scary shadows from my brain. "But you might not enjoy most of my performance..."

"You can close the door if you need to use the toilet," I concede, blushing. I am a little shy. "I'll survive that long," I assure him, sinking to the floor with my back against the wall next to the bathroom door.

David crouches in front of me, his eyes gentle and his smile filled with compassion. He really is the most patient man I've ever met. "There's no one here, Belle, just you and me," he assures me, squeezing my hand. I try to smile at him, but my eyes are drawn to the staircase leading to the parts of the house we cannot see from here... and there is the dining room as well.

I didn't hear feet running away from me when David came in, but then again, I'd been kicking up quite a racket of my own at the time. I try not to think about the unseen rooms while I watch David pull off his boots.

"I'll search the house when I'm clean and dry," he says as if he's reading my mind and, rising, steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

And now I am alone.

I can hear the clocks ticking again, loudly, despite the warlike noise of the storm still going strong outside, but they are keeping their rhythm quite well now. I listen for the sound of shoes on the wooden floor, but there are none, and even if there were, I doubt that it would've been audible. David and I almost had to shout to hear each other. I don't understand how I'm hearing the clocks. Perhaps I'm only hearing them because I know they're there, and my mind is filling in the rest of the sound.

Light has driven all the other inexplicable sounds away or simply allocated them to the right things, placing them in context. I don't feel threatened anymore... well, not too much.

I look at David's heavy work boots lying outside the bathroom door. Earlier, he'd taken them from where he'd dropped them at the back door and took them with him, putting them on just before he left the house through the front door.

They're wet and muddy now. My scream must've stopped him from taking them off at the back door again. He was in a hurry to save a woman who was being attacked by strong wind, rain, a branch, and her imagination.

I take one of the shoes in my hand and study its deep-grooved, rubber sole. Placing it flat on the floor, I move it around, trying to slide it over the wooden surface. It makes a soft squeaking sound, sticking as the rubber grips the surface of the floor.

This is not what I heard.

Did I perhaps hear myself? I'm not wearing any shoes, and it didn't sound like bare feet. Yes, I didn't think to grab my discarded flip-flops when I decided to go look for David. I was going to run out into the rain on my naked soles. Not the best idea since the paved area in front of the house is littered with twigs and stones.

"What are you doing?" David asks, suddenly opening the door next to me, catching me playing with his shoes. With the door open, I can hear water streaming into the bathtub.

"Weapons," I say, thinking it would sound less crazy than telling him that I'm trying to see if he was the one moving around in the dark, stalking me. He has been nothing but kind; it is not fair of me. What would he possibly have achieved by moving around near me and not answering when I called his name?

Nothing! Unless his aim is to drive me crazy.

Apparently, satisfied by my explanation, he leaves the door open a crack and retreats into the bathroom to take his bath.

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