Not long after, driving cautiously down a dirt road, I was surrounded by panoramic views of rural farmland. Houses were perched on top of rolling hills in the far distance, and cattle were scattered dots grazing peacefully in their pastures.
It was beautiful area; so peaceful. I hadn't passed another car since I'd left Hettie's.
The cottage was supposedly located in the western part of town, and taking the left road at the intersection should have led me straight to it.
Tempted to turn back to ask for directions, I decided to keep going and finally found a place that matched the photo. Turned out it wasn't very far from town, after all.
I pulled off the road as far as I could manage, but the dry, straw-like grass hindered my attempt to drive over it in my sedan. Not to mention the possible nails or barbed wire hidden under it all. The last thing I needed was a punctured tyre all the way out in the middle of nowhere.
Ignoring the trapped vegetation in my car door after slamming it shut, I stepped away cautiously, thankful for a second time that day that I had worn my boots. Who knew what sorts of slithery creatures lurked within.
The small house stood not too far from the road, and I felt compelled to admire it from afar for a moment. It seemed so alone, so empty, and that saddened me. A house once loved, now abandoned, whether by choice, we may never know.
I imagined the cottage as it once was; full of life, bustling with people, the laughter of young Nicholas echoing within its walls. Ghosts didn't haunt the rooms of this house, simply the memories of what once was.
I was hesitant to go inside, not quite ready to disturb the peace. Curious to see what remained around the back, I decided to go for a wander first.
I dodged the tangled remains of a barbed wire fence and made my way past the side of the house. The grass was still thick, but not as long, making it easier to walk through. I wondered if the neighbouring farmers allowed their cows to graze here.
There was a dilapidated, timber barn nearby, roof caving in, surrendering itself to the pull of gravity. Further down, I passed a messy pile of timber and wire, possibly once a chicken coop.
It really was a beautiful place. The sun bathed the open land in a warm, golden glow, while scattered Eucalyptus trees reached for the clear, blue sky. The melodious voice of Black Currawongs called in the distance.
I didn't think it wise to roam too far away, but as I turned, something caught my eye. Under one of the gum trees was an odd-shaped rock, tall and narrow. Not seeing any other rocks around, curiosity got the better of me, so I moved towards it. As I got closer, there was no mistaking what it was. A lone headstone, weathered and chipped over time, nothing but a single gum tree to protect it from the elements.
The inscription had faded but was still legible.
In Loving Memory Of
Thomas Clay
Died 4th July 1854
Aged 40
and wife Mary Ellen Clay
Died 2nd July 1854
Aged 38
Beloved parents of Nicholas
The dates sent a tingle down my spine, goosebumps rising on the surface of my arms and legs. They had died two days apart. Poor Nicholas. Losing his parents so close together. It seemed appropriate to bury them here; the place they built with their bare hands, the place they called home. I wondered if Nicholas visited them every day or watched them from afar through one of the cottage's windows.
I glanced around the area again, in case I missed something. There were no more headstones to be found. It was a shame Nicholas' final resting place was not next to his parents. That was something I was eager to find more about when I got back home.
A lone dandelion flower swayed in the gentle breeze and I picked it, placing it in front of the headstone. Silently I turned and made my way back up to the cottage.
Being so deep in thought, I almost jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. It was so peaceful out here that one could forget about the existence of phones and technology.
I plucked it out of my back pocket and checked the screen. It was Anna. Only one reception bar too, so I hoped it wouldn't cut out.
"Hey, Anna."
"Tills, hey. Finally. Did you get my messages?" The sound of her voice was fading in and out.
"No?"
"Oh. I've been sending you messages for the past couple of hours. My phone hasn't had much reception, so yours probably hasn't either."
"I haven't really checked. It has one bar at the moment so it could cut out any minute. Are you guys on your way already?"
"Yeah. Brad finished work early. We're actually nearly at the B&B. Where are you?"
"I'm standing outside the cottage."
"Ooh, have you been inside yet?"
"No, I haven't gone in yet. Was savouring the moment."
Her laughed crackled through the phone. "Sounds like something you'd do."
"Did you want me to wait until you guys get here before I go inside?"
"Nah, you go. We won't be far behind. Just have to go to Hettie's for a toilet break. Be careful. See you soon."
"Oh, wait. I must warn you about Hettie. She could talk the leg off an iron pot."
Anna laughed. "All right. I'll see you in an hour, then," she joked.
I giggled and said goodbye.
We hung up and I walked around to the front of the cottage, having to push my way through tall weeds and dead shrubs. My toe caught on something solid and I stumbled forward, relieved I didn't land head first into the mini jungle. It was a small rounded rock, in fact, many rocks, and I was most likely standing in what was once a garden bed. Continuing on, I managed to find my way to the verandah, plucking twigs and cobbler's pegs from my clothes.
The awning was home to hundreds of spiders, the delicate webs undisturbed by humans for more than a century. The windows and window sills were thick with grime and one window was cracked right down the middle. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I pulled the vintage silver key out of my pocket, pushed it into the keyhole and turned. It unlocked with a sturdy clunk. Turning the solid round doorknob, I opened the door.
I was nervous, but excited to see inside, to see a glimpse of history, untouched for over a hundred years. How many times did Nicholas, Thomas or Mary Ellen walk in the front door as I were to do at that moment, and see exactly what I was about to see?
Taking a step forward, I edged myself closer and closer into darkness, the beam of sunlight from the front door only reaching the foyer. I activated the torch on my phone and held it in front of me, the sound of my boots against the solid timber floor amplified in the still and silent house.
As the main living room came into view, I gasped in awe at the sight before me. It was as though I had stepped straight onto a movie set or a display at a museum. Everything was still in place. Furniture, decorative items, paintings on the wall, even a stack of firewood by the fireplace. Dust covered everything, though, like a fine layer of flour, and spider webs draped from objects like tinsel on a Christmas tree.
The home was small but comfortable and I felt an odd sense of belonging, like I'd been here before. I wasn't afraid of the silence or darkness, but felt safe, at ease, content.
Taking the utmost care to avoid furniture and anything I might knock over, I ambled around the room, fascinated by everything I saw.
If it wasn't for the dust covering a lone wine glass on the coffee table, I'd almost expect someone to catch me intruding and yell at me to get out of their house. It really did look like Nicholas just upped and left, leaving everything as it were.
A painting caught my attention, hung proudly on the wall above the fireplace, framed in an ornate gold frame. Drawn to it, I moved closer to get a better look. Placing my phone on the mantelpiece, torch facing up, I was able to see more clearly. It was a beautiful oil painting of the cottage from a distance, during a misty morning, golden sunrise illuminating the sky. A dirt road, possibly the one I just travelled on, was the focal point, stretching into the distance, disappearing into the fog.
I searched for a signature, then found one. Scrawled on the bottom right hand corner was the name Nicholas Clay.
"Nicholas painted this? Wow," I uttered to myself in total amazement. His painting skills were impressive.
Unfortunately, the painting was unable to escape the inevitable gathering of dust, and it was a shame it hadn't been in an art gallery all these years for others to enjoy.
I promised myself I wouldn't touch, but it was almost as though it was hypnotising me, drawing me in. So I reached up and ran my index finger along the bottom of the dust-covered frame, an action I would soon come to regret.
A painful spark surged through the tip of my finger, similar to static electricity, causing me to flinch and take a step back. An unexpected wave of nausea overwhelmed me, then dizziness soon followed. I was robbed of my strength, legs no longer capable of holding me up and I stumbled to the floor. My whole body felt like it was being crushed, ribs snapping like twigs, heart squeezed tight. An incomprehensible sound escaped my lips and I gasped for breath. Whatever this was, I had never in my life experienced anything like it before.
Curled up in a ball on the floor, my body was released from the horrifying sensations, over as quickly as it began.
"What the hell?" I grumbled.
Feeling normal again, no nausea or crushed ribs, I pushed myself up from the floor, thankful my half a scone didn't make a reappearance.
It took a second for my brain to register where I was. I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes and then focused on the room again. It seemed different. Brighter? My eyes scanned the room. All the furniture was the same but it looked... new, clean. There was no dust and no spider webs. I glanced back at the painting above the fireplace. Also no dust and no spider webs. I felt hot, very hot. Did I have a fever? Movement caught my eye. The room was on fire! No, wait! The fireplace was lit!
What was going on?
The sound of heavy footsteps in another room startled me and I backed away, bumping into a chair. The footsteps stopped.
"Who's there?" a deep, male voice called out.
I couldn't speak. I was frozen on the spot. Was there someone living in the house? Was it a homeless person? A ghost? I remembered to breath and tried to talk.
"I-I, um..." Well, at least it was something.
The owner of the voice poked his head out from the room, most likely a bedroom, and gazed upon me. I remained motionless as a man in his early thirties came into full view. Judging by the expression on his face, he did not look happy.
"What do you think you're doing here, woman?" he asked, crossly, dark brown eyebrows lowering in disapproval. He did not have an Australian accent, but an English one.
My body may have been frozen, but my eyeballs weren't, and they were madly flicking up and down, taking in his appearance. He had short, straight, dark brown hair, neatly side parted and combed slightly higher at the centre of his forehead. His short, full beard was curlier than the hair on his head, flecked with grey. He was dressed in brown trousers with a white, long-sleeved shirt and the shoes on his feet were black.
His appearance didn't scream homeless to me, nor was he translucent, and as far as I was aware, I was the only one with a key. So who the hell was he?
My eyes widened at the iron fire poker he was holding with a firm fist. Noticing my reaction to it, he released the weapon from his grip, the loud clang awakening me from my trance.
"I-I, um..." I foolishly repeated again.
He tilted his head and stared at me intently. "Can you not speak, woman? I ask again, what are you doing in my home? Answer me!"
His home?
"I thought this house was vacant. I was told..."
"You were told rubbish. This home has never been vacant. I demand you leave at once." He outstretched his left arm and pointed in the direction of the front door.
"But..." Did I hit my head when I went down? "It's been vacant for over a hundred years. It's up for sale. Are you living here illegally? Because if so, I think you are the one who should leave."
That seemed to aggravate him. He took a step forward and I stepped back, bumping into that stupid chair again.
"You, Miss, are trespassing. Leave now!"
Without argument, I raced through the living room, straight for the front door, opening it up before running outside. Didn't I leave it open when I came in?
I stopped abruptly with what I saw in front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes.
I was no longer standing among dry grass, tall weeds and dead shrubs.
No. I was now standing among lush, green grass, no weeds, and a beautiful, flowering garden.