I've locked the front door, made it to the bathroom and am sinking into the now lukewarm bathwater when my brain unfreezes, and I start to feel really scared.
I open the hot water tap again and then wish I hadn't because now I cannot hear the silence of the house.
Choices: Be attacked while naked, wet and cold, jerking with involuntary muscle spasms, unable to fight or flee. Be attacked after taking a warm bath and putting on loads of clothing, and finding a weapon.
It's a no-brainer.
The bathroom door is locked out of habit. I'm relatively safe for now.
I close the tap when the water is warm enough, and though I'm unable to relax, I'm able to scrub myself clean, wash my hair and warm myself up. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror earlier.
Bedraggled. Deranged... I can think of a few other choice words that will describe my current look well. Desirable and sexy are not among them. I might even be gross enough to discourage any kind of attack. Most people will take one look at me and run the other way. I'm sure of it. I think...
After dressing and towel-drying my hair, I stay in the bathroom long enough to dump my dirty clothing into the tub for a soak until I find a way to wash it. I think I might have some detergent in my groceries. Maybe.
I'm too scared to open the door, but I know that I cannot stay here forever. My stomach growling gives me the courage to unlock and open the door, and I gingerly step out into the cold foyer.
Nothing has been disturbed while I was locked in the bathroom.
My art debris is still lying just inside the front door. The floor is still wet and dirty, marking my passing. Only mine. Aside from my heavy breathing, the slow ticking of a grandfather clock is the sole sound coming from inside the house.
Grandfather clock? Was it ticking before?
I can't remember. I can see it standing against the far wall of the living area. My eyes must have grown used to the dim light because I can see a lot of other things now as well.
Faded floral couches and chairs, an intricately carved fireplace and some scattered side tables. Quite charming. Old fashioned. Next to the clock, the wall opens onto a small niche containing bay-window seats set into all three of its walls. That is the area directly on top of the utility room.
"I'm hungry."
Yes, seeing the niche, I did immediately think of the maggots down there and yet these are the words that spill from my mouth, demonstrating the magnitude of my starvation levels.
My food and the rest of my art supplies are still in the car, and so are my bedding and another suitcase filled with clothing. (I didn't intend to do a lot of laundering.) The storm is still raging. I have no desire to go out there and soak my fluffy, warm tracksuit and bunny slippers.
"But I'm hungry..."
To my left are the stairs leading to the 1st floor, and to my right is the archway going to the back of the house and further to my right is the living room area I've been studying. I decide to use the archway to see if I can find the kitchen.
Perhaps there'll be some plastic bags there that I can use to protect parts of me from the rain if I feel like I'm about to starve to death.
What if someone is waiting in the kitchen?
"Well, I hope he has coffee..."
I'm not really that brave, but experience has taught me that when I start with questions like that I'll still be standing in this very spot, my back pressed against the bathroom door, by the time I should be at the university for my final art evaluation.
I force myself away from my spot and turn into the archway, taking slow steps toward the darkness at the back of the house. I turn on every light switch I find on my way. No, conserving electricity is not resting heavily on my conscience right now.
The sooner I go through every room, the sooner I'll be satisfied that I'm alone here and that there was no man in the small forest surrounding the house.
Opening the door at the end of the hallway, I enter the kitchen and am met by a panoramic view of a power spectacle consisting of crashing branches and blinding flashes of lightning. The entire wall to the right of the kitchen is filled with windows above stone shelves topping wooden cupboards.
Outside, the storm is showing off its supremacy. It is beautiful and frightening.
The kitchen is old-fashioned, with a large gas stove and a stone and wood preparation island under a rail of hanging pots and pans. Garlands of dried herbs, flowers, and garlic hang on the walls.
There are lacy curtains at the windows' edges, and strands of Ivy are trying to cover the windows on the outside. It is quite lovely. No rot, no decay, not as far as I can see.
No plastic bags, no food either.
To the right of the door I'm standing at, the kitchen opens into a pantry, separated by a door hanging made of wooden beads. It is empty, save for some storage bins and pots, a broom and other cleaning paraphernalia. Well, at least I shan't be wallowing in my own filth.
Opposite the door from the hallway is a door leading outside. A branch is insistently scratching-scratching at this door. Thanks to the small windows in it, I can see that it's just a branch. If not for those windows, my imagination would've been stirred up again.
Nobody's hanging out among the trees.
Though the light is fading, dusk has not completely settled in yet, and I can see more than enough. Especially each time the garden is lit up by lightning. The trees bowing and thrashing in the wind are planted in straight lines. It is an orchard of some kind. An orchard in desperate need of tending.
"Pretty."
I'm not finding anything to eat in the kitchen. For some reason, the idea of dried garlic and herbs does not whet my appetite as much as one might think it would.
There is another door near the windows, on the same wall as the entrance to the pantry. It is locked.
Satisfied that nobody is hiding in any of the cupboards and that the kitchen is clean enough for me to create more or less edible meals in it, I retrace my steps back through the short hallway leading to the foyer. Halfway down the corridor, I come to a stop.
There's a door to my right which I didn't see before. I try the nob cautiously, as has become my habit, and it opens into the smallest bedroom in the world. One tiny window looks out onto the backyard and the steps leading to the kitchen's back door.
The room contains a narrow bed and one small, battered bedside table with an oil lamp. The mattress is bare and stained brown with age and many spills. A battered old closet near the foot-end of the bed is the only other piece of furniture in the room.
The room smells stale; it must have been closed for a very long time. The walls are scuffed, and the washed-out wallpaper is peeling off in many places. Almost every surface is covered in a thick layer of dust. The window is bare of curtains but draped in wispy cobwebs.
Whoever cleaned the house didn't bother with this room.
Outside, to the left of the back patio, a little boy is trying to urinate in a small pond. He seems to be blind, his eyes dark pits, and one of his hands is missing. The pond is covered in a tangle of lilies, irises and water hyacinths all around the boy. It is both beautiful and sad.
A knot is forming in the base of my throat.
"Come on, don't be a twit," I say, swiping at the tears that are suddenly spilling from my eyes and running down my cheeks. I'm abruptly overwhelmed by gut-wrenching grief.
"What the hell?!"
My heartbeat starts to pick up speed, and suddenly I cannot breathe. The walls are closing in on me. Panic! I'm having a full-blown, claustrophobic panic attack, and I'm so friggin' sad! I don't normally suffer from claustrophobia. I have many phobias, but claustrum is not one of them.
When did I close the door?! Will it open again?! I'm going to die in this small, dark room!
Gasping for air, I turn away from the window, from the moss-covered stone boy and the tangled pond. I yank the door open and slam it shut on my way out of the closet-sized room.
Back in the hallway, my rampant emotions calm down as fast as they'd built up. I can breathe again, and I do so in huge gulps.
What was that all about?
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