"This is a huge fucking mess, Sam. Big mistake. Huge."
"It must be bad if you're quoting Pretty Woman," she jokes through my speaker. I'm attempting to multi-task, unused to the rough terrain that my car has now traveled over ten miles outside of town. The winding roads have become narrower and steeper, sending me into mountain terrain.
"I'm serious. This guy sat down with me for five minutes and switched the tables on me so easily you'd think I had no experience. That's how good he was."
"Hey, at least it's a challenge."
"I like a challenge, Sam, not a test."
"He invited you over. That must mean he wants to tell something. Get whatever you can. It's more than anybody else has gotten."
"I'm not convinced. Why would he suddenly want to speak to me this easily? I was sure I was going to have to butter him up, really work him into this."
"Most men fall at your feet, Joe. He probably wants something else. Flirt with him a bit and maybe he'll open up. He's probably...really lonely up there...all alone." Her voice has considerably warmed with amusement, which irritates me to no end.
"He's not interested. I saw that."
"Did he say that?"
"Well, no."
"Did you want him to be?"
My tires squeal to a stop as the car makes a turn, and notice an even steeper paved road around the bend. The windshield wipers are working at full force, shoving the snowflakes from the window. The sky is still a light gray color, shading the forests with gloominess. It's been miles since the last speed limit sign, and even longer since the last residence.
"He lives in the middle of nowhere, Sam. Maybe he wants to kill me."
She laughs. "Judging by your GPS, you're almost there. Why don't you hang up with me and prepare your questions now?"
"You're right," I reply, hanging up on her, too uneasy to hear her urges regarding Aidan Hughes. She knows full well I would never secure a story in a bed. Too many people do that in this business. Too many people have expected that of me in this business. Aidan Hughes will tell me his story when he trusts me enough to do so.
And I will stay on him until that time comes. I will not go home empty handed, Christmas or not.
Aware there is no turning back, my car surges forward at my foots will, and scales the hill with enough speed to ensure my tires can jump the climb. From one moment, my stomach is an agitation of knots, and the next, has gone hollow at the sight of the towering gate only a few feet away from my vehicle. The steel has rusted, and deteriorated due to lack of care, the green shrubs that initially absorbed the brick blocking the estate in have begun to consume the French swirling design in wild, tangled vines.
My eyes scale the gate, landing upon a camera that is much newer than the ancient wall blocking Aidan Hughes from the rest of the world. The mailbox which has clearly been smashed a few times tilts on its stand, the red flag cemented into its side. The name Hughes is worn down by weather, or maybe tampering.
I recall reading in his files about his wealth, his father's fortune and wonder whether Aidan has spent it all or loathes the idea of basic home repair. The security box I stick my arm out of the window to doesn't work, despite how many buttons I push.
"Hello?" I say into the frozen speaker. "Hello? Mr. Hughes?"
With my car running, I brave the wrath of the weather and step into the misty path. The ground is littered with trash, each item dug into the earth, clearly untouched for some time. Reaching down, I snatch the remains of a damp sign, the words long since faded, but not illegible.
MURDERER, it reads in bold bubbled letters.
I'm not sure why my heart falters in my chest at the eight-letter word, but it does. If my body hadn't already been numbed by the raining snow, I'd have felt that word straight to my marrow.
Murderer?
Tearing my eyes away from the cardboard, I search for its other piece, bending in my heeled boots. Coming up disappointed, I stare at the word again, as if it will magically give me an answer. In all my research, Aidan Hughes was a victim, a man struck helpless by ill fate, or to some, an irreversible curse.
I believed neither. I still don't, however, this sign holds a mountain of questions, ones I hadn't even begun to think of before. The mountainside is vast, the town only a congestion of lights now. Winter has frozen over Washington, and all that cheerful exuberance I felt amongst the townspeople is no longer reachable. This place holds no joy, and I hardly need to enter the gate to recognize that.
At the sound of creaking, my head jerks to the side, where the steel is flaying apart, inviting me inside with ominous sound. The sign in my hands won't stop me. I cross the wild terrain and throw the board onto the passenger seat, climbing into the car. Half expecting to see the house instantly, I'm headed into another driveway that has no end in sight. Large, vacant green fields lay on either side of the paved road, trimmed down no more than a few days ago. Old white oak trees guard the grounds, dried, tan leaves still stuck to the branches, covering the land in darkness.
Despite the eerie stillness, I sense the first sign of life—a house, clearly not the main one, but a decent size, accompanied by two pick-ups in a forked dirt driveway. It's tucked along the gate, which most likely means it's used for a groundskeeper or a family member who likes privacy.
It's a wood cabin, and not abandoned. There's a light on, and the chimney is huffing. My car continues along the main path, finding more hills and spirals to endure before I can find the famous estate. Narrowed roads only fit for a car going one way make me nervous, but seeing how quiet this experience has been so far, I push past, impatient for the end.
The hood of my car levels out, rolling over the last ascent as I come upon flat land. My eyes widen considerably at the view from the cliff, which extends to intimidating length over wildlife and remote forest, showing me that I have traveled a great distance to get this interview, also, that I should not expect the trip back to be pleasant whatsoever.
With a turn, I park my car and finally release the breath I'd been holding.
The Hughes estate is a manor. Not a mansion or a state-of-the-art experiment. Its walls are stone, stone that has undoubtedly withstood an array of elements, worn with age, but not lacking beauty. Unlike the scene outside the gate, the house is decorated in orderly gardens of various flowers and shrubs, despite the fact that it's winter. The entrance is barren, leading only to a sturdy timber door, a thick barrier of sweet mahogany color.
The manor itself has to be 70 feet in height, with possibly a dozen rooms concealed within, I'd guess. The smokey gray building ascends to the sky, the windows revealing the only light inside framed by dark shutters that are most likely purely decoration. The manor has multiple chimneys, and all are steaming.
When the door cracks open, I jump into action gathering my things, unsure as to how long I've been observing my surroundings. Leaving my coat on the seat, prepared to make a brisk walk to the entrance, I throw open the door, bulldozed by snow. It's coming down harder, harder than it was a few minutes ago.
Overhead, the sky is stormy black, which unnerves me just as I reach the door. Expecting the mystery man I met a few hours ago, I'm stunned when a woman is holding it ajar. She's middle-aged, although her hair is nearly already white. Her smile is warm and inviting, like I'm an old friend she hasn't seen in years, and not a journalist with an agenda.
"Honey, where is your coat?"
"In the car," I respond, peeking back out to the wind. "If this storm gets here sooner than later, will I still be able to drive down that craziness? I mean, is there an easier way out maybe?"
She urges me in with a hearty chuckle. "It's hard getting down this mountain even on a good day...miss?"
She's waiting for my name. The minute the door is sealed, I say, "Josephine Taylor. Mr. Hughes is expecting me."
"Oh, of course. Just wait here while I run and fetch him."
She's a nervous woman, who bounces while she walks, dressed head to toe in outdated fashion. Her hair is up in a tight ponytail, a strand hardly out of place. Before she turns the corner, she glances back to me with a strange smile. Deciding not to dwell on the oddities around me, I focus on the palpable things.
The manor itself. In disbelief, my mind churns at the sight of baroque paintings dominating the walls of the corridor, painted with dark colors and expressions that easily slip into the soul. It's hard not to study them as I saunter down the hall, noting objects of importance.
The photograph of two beautiful people, and a baby, lying amongst white snowdrop flowers.
A gold pocket watch, encased in a hand carved box, shielded by glass.
A massive record player up to my waist right in the middle of the hallway that had to be an heirloom, passed down over the last century. The machine is a sleek wood, the sides decorated with hand-painted lilies.
A pair of rain boots near a coat rack that are a child's size.
Even things that are of unimportance seem to stand out here.
An umbrella stand near the door, the expensive rug that covers the stone beneath my heels, a wall clock with two doves perched on the edge.
At the end of the hall are stairs, and before them, a hallway on one side and a door on the other. It's hard to believe someone under forty lives here, walks amongst these ancient things day and night.
"I'd begun to believe you'd gotten lost, Ms. Taylor."
At the sound of a low, vibrating echo, I spin in place toward the originating sound, finding the man himself stood below the arch of the hall. In the dimness from a lantern-esque light, he's revealed, his tall height creating a decent shadow along the floor.
His arms are crossed over a brown sweater, a crisp polo folding over the neckline from underneath. He's only lost the jacket and the hat from the run-in at the diner, but somehow he looks completely different.
Intimidating. Hard. Dominating. Confident.
He's in his element, and it shows. The diner, that embodiment of joy, was a far cry from this place, meaning clearly, he blossoms in darkness.
"I nearly did. Tell me, are we still in Washington?" I joke, unnerved by the chill that is creeping over my skin, rolling across my nerves with agitation. He may find my attempt at a joke funny, but he doesn't show it. Instead, he crosses the room and the light from the hung fixtures dance along his skin.
"It's better up here," he says, cryptically. "No one for miles. Only nature, unmarred by the world."
I clip questions back, not wanting to bombard him before we've even settled, but this place is unsettling, and the man, even more so. He's dauntingly beautiful, truly. His beauty grows the longer you look. His eyes darken, his skin glows, his lips part forming perfect shapes.
He leans against the door post, which creaks loudly. "Do you like music, Ms. Taylor?"
"Call me Josephine."
"This is a formal visit," he replies, bluntly. "Not a social call, am I correct?"
"Mr. Hughes, I'm here because you asked me to be here."
"I'd like to know a bit about my interviewer before I divulge the horrors of my world upon you. Will you indulge me?"
Indulge me? Horrors of his...? Having traveled the world, having interviewed hundreds of people, none of them have made me wish I'd never set foot near them. And as beautiful as this man is, I feel a strange detachment from him, too. Whether it's the sign from the gate doing this to my thoughts or my intuition, I'm not sure.
Whatever this man has to say is not good. I feel it. I feel it in this house.
Something happened here.
All I know is that I want to leave...and yet, that's impossible.
"Of course," I breathe. "What do you want to know?"
His mouth curves, slowly, his eyes slanting with amusement. "Well, currently, I'd like to know if you like music."
"I love it."
He diverts his attention to the record player, straightening off the wood. He points to the brass horn atop the player. "A phonograph player. 1920's."
"Does it still work?"
"Yes," he replies, but makes no move to touch it. "This house is a museum, stuffed with money. My family was always avid collectors of antiques."
"Do you collect things too?"
He shakes his head. "Only in cameras."
"I'm a fan of your work," I say, stunned when my own voice cracks just as my gaze lifts to meet his. He's watching me, closely. He doesn't perk up at that, nor does he thank me for the compliment. "The collection from the string of tornados in Arkansas was riveting. The destruction..."
"There was nothing like it. That storm season was a monster in itself."
"You captured it beautifully. It was haunting, but beautiful. Didn't the president use your photographs during his speech?"
"I'm not sure," he replies, tucking his arms behind his back. "Would you like to see more of the house?"
"Yes, okay."
His face softens, his blink lasting a millisecond longer than it should, and when his eyes reopen, he looks as he did when he walked into that café. Out of place. It only took a second, but he let down the wall, reminding me that there is an entirely different man within him.
This coarser, tough as leather mystery leading me toward a dim hallway is not what he seems.
That MURDERER sign has a story behind it, one I hadn't known about till a few minutes ago.
"Are these paintings real?" I ask, while we trek down the slim tunnel, awed by how ancient this all seems. The town is slightly outdated, a cute getaway. This dominating structure is hidden away, deep in the woods, oddly planted.
"Some of them. Almost all of them are mid-17th century, most adhering to the renaissance era."
"They're intense."
"I used to be terrified of a few of them when I was younger."
"Did your father or mother enjoy collecting them?"
He remains quiet for a few seconds, before pointing to one of the doors. "That leads to a basement. There's a hidden tunnel that leads to east side of the grounds."
He's derailed my question, oddly. There's a clanging bang that ignites my adrenaline which causes me to jump back a step. I'm imbalanced, my heel wedged between the edge of a stair leading to a door and reaching out to steady myself on the stone, Aidan's hand snatches my wrist, flinging me back into the hall.
The moment my head molds into his chest, coming in contact with his tall frame, my breath leaves me with a "whoosh". The clanging continues while my eyes slowly drift up over his sweater, his curved throat, over his jaw line, past his mouth until he captures my gaze.
"It's only Victoria...in the kitchen," he says, without tearing his eyes from my own.
My head bobs up and down but my limbs won't budge. My hands are knuckled between our chests, the intoxicating scent of pine and burnt wood filling my nostrils, bouncing off of him. His expression is polite but expertly detached, which hurries my common sense into drive.
I give myself distance, inching away from him, trying to re-gather my dignity. What the hell was that?
"I'm not myself today."
"Oh? And what are you usually like?" he asks, beginning to walk again. I clear my throat and start after him, a determined firmness to my step.
"Mr. Hughes, I'm interviewing you, remember? We should probably get started on it."
"This hall was remodeled after—"
"Mr. Hughes."
"My great grandfather needed more rooms and took the evening room, separated—"
"Mr. Hughes."
He enters a room, a parlor room. There is a fire going, and a tray laid out on the table. I jump in front of him, stopping him in before he can reach it.
"I'm getting the very uneasy feeling that you aren't going to answer any of the questions I have." I hold his gaze, out of breath. "Am I right or wrong?"
"You want my story."
I nod. "Yes, I do."
"And what exactly do you want? Me to ramble about my misgivings, my tragic life? A damn curse? My daughter?" His brows furrow, angrily. "What on earth entitles you to my private life?"
"Most people want their private lives shared, if it can help others."
"Nothing about me will help anyone else, Ms. Taylor. You want to write this story because people take enjoyment in misery. It doesn't need to be mine. It can be anyone's and they love it."
"That's not true..."
"It is true. I made my living on misery, trust me, I know."
"You have final say over the piece, Mr. Hughes. I would never print anything that would shame you."
"And what if I was shameful? I thought you wanted truth," he replies, coldly. "You're expecting a victim, a flubbering idiot who believes the world is out to get him. I am not that kind of man."
I hold up my hands as he approaches the fireplace. "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that this article would paint you as a victim at all. I seek the truth, and only that. I'd take whatever you have to give me and I'd find a story in that."
"I'll give you plenty, Ms. Taylor, but not what you seek."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you every uninteresting fact about this house, I will show you collections of unseen, ultimately mediocre photographs, I will answer every question you have to ask me... discluding the subject of my family."
"Mr. Hughes..."
"If that's not what you came here for—"
"It isn't."
"Then, you can leave," he says, turning from the burnt stones. He plants himself arrogantly, crossing his arms over his chest, which is hardly moving.
"You brought me here for no reason," I utter, anger seeping through my bloodstream.
"I told you I'd do your interview. I never said what I'd allow."
"I'm not one of these reporters or paparazzi you see on the side of the road. I'm a sought-after journalist who has been in this business for almost a decade, and I'm only thirty. I've seen more than most, and uncovered things that were always meant to remain hidden."
"What kind of things?" he asks, feigning intrigue, his mouth turning up into a smirk. My heart pumps ferociously, my hands clenching into fists.
He's notoriously private, I knew that. He doesn't grant interviews, I knew that too.
I had no idea he was an ass.
"Thank you for your time," I growl, spinning on my heel. The hallway is an icebox compared to the flaming room, but my adrenaline will no doubt keep my bones from freezing up. I'm passing the noisy kitchen when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn back, glaring.
"You don't need to pretend you have manners and walk me to the door, all right? I can find it myself."
"You know, I'm not trying to be cruel."
"Is that so?" I laugh. "Is that why you asked me to come all the way up here to toy and show me your creepy antiques?"
His laugh startles me. I can't believe he's laughing. "Creepy antiques? Well, I'm sorry they offend you, Josephine."
The way my name rolls across his tongue and settles in the air prickles my skin, and I nearly stop my tracks. He's infuriating, and stubborn, and hot-headed...and completely entrancing. I'm angry that he can make me so angry, just hours after meeting him.
I've never had this type of reaction, this discomfort. It's making me behave rashly.
"I have a job to do. An important job. You could have told me at the diner you didn't want me to bother you. You didn't need this game."
"I wanted you to see where I live, see how far I've detached myself from the rest of the world. Show you that I am not a story. I am a man, who deserves to maintain some sort of peace. I don't require much, but that I do need."
"I read you loud and clear, Mr. Hughes."
"Do you?"
Back amongst the old paintings, the record player, I stop to hear him, to listen to him.
"You're teaching me a lesson, taking out years of invasions on me. You have every right to decline an interview, but you need to let me out of the door to do that."
He stares at me, in silence, his hands on his hips. His hair cascades down behind his ears in dark wavy tendrils, framing a sharp face, the face of a magician. It's next to magic how quickly he can close down, and open himself. It takes only seconds.
He's waiting for me to leave, and yet, something in his eyes forces me to stay.
I'm cemented into these grounds, my heart lodged in my throat.
What is happening here?
"Again, thank you for your time," I force out through my teeth, shoving myself toward the looming doorway. The closer I get, the louder the screeching train seems to creep up, except, we're not anywhere near train tracks. The door doesn't want to budge, and requires both my hands to do so. At the urging, and with a sudden gush of wind, the door snaps to the side, molding into the wall.
My eyes widen.
My car is invisible, concealed by a storm so furious that the sky has disappeared and the snow is drifting through crazed wind into the manor. Swirls of snowflakes, little droplets of hail scatter along the entranceway and into the house, all the way to Aidan Hughes feet.
The storm has arrived... and I'm stuck here.