Today’s the first full day of prep. Should I really allow one bad first impression to taint the rest of this experience?
Besides, I’m in this for themoney. So long as I get paid, I can deal with some unease and discomfort for a couple days.
The door leading to the terrace opens with a rusty creak. The cold hits instantly, blowing against my face and into my curls.
I stand still for a few seconds and let my gaze travel over the view that greets me. The landscape spreads out before me in a heavy blanket of snow and thicket of trees that go on for what must be miles and miles.
I could probably scream bloody murder and no one would ever hear me.
Tiny little hairs on the back of my neck rise at that thought. But I force the feeling away like I’ve forced away the many other unpleasant thoughts, reminding myself that this job is worth it.
I need it—the money will solve so many problems.
My mortgage. My car payment. The other bills piling up.
Seventy-two hours and then I’m done. It’ll be over before I know it.
I make my way down the back steps, snow boots crunching through fresh snow as I cross the lawn. My cheeks sting from the harsh winds, but it feels strangely good at the same time—real and biting and proof I’m alive.
I scribble a few quick notes about garland placement and a possible sled vignette near the garden arch, though it’s hard to focus when the quiet is so loud.
There’s no birdsong. No rustling wind through the branches. No crack of ice or creak of distant wood.
Just silence. Deep and seemingly everlasting.
It almost feels like the earth is waiting on me. As if it’s waiting for my next move, breath bated.
I keep walking around the grounds, closely observing the Taylor estate and making notes of what details I could add.
The main grounds slope downward toward the forest, the snow deeper and thicker, untouched by any foot traffic or path. A small cottage rests at the edge of the treeline—one I hadn’t noticed yesterday. It’s built from dark timber, half-buried in a drift, its peaked roof sagging slightly under the weight of ice. The shutters are closed tight.
There are no footprints. No smoke. But it’s charming enough to draw me closer anyway, heart ticking a couple beats faster.
I’m closing in on the cottage when I sense a shift in the air. I feel eyes on me.
Slowing up and glancing around, I don’t see anything—at least at first.
My gaze roves over the snowy winter landscape and finds nothing but trees and snow and more trees and snow.
…and then he appears from behind the thick trunk of a tree.
The hairs on my arms lift even from under the sleeves of my sweater. It takes several seconds for it to register what exactly I’m seeing.
For me to truly understand what’s happened and that suddenly I’m no longer alone.
For all the griping I’ve done, I’d prefer if I was.
He steps out from between the trees.
He’s tall.Massive.
Bare from the waist up, his chest rippling with taut muscle, decorated with specks of hair. His arms are just as impressive, cut and defined by muscle, shoulders broad and sturdy. He wears a faded pair of what’s unmistakably Santa Clause pants and heavy black boots.
But these details aren’t even the most jarring—it’s the mask he wears that instantly paralyzes me, rooting me to the spot.
It’s grotesque and disturbing, carved of harsh features like a skeletal nose and mouth and dark, hollowed-out eyes. Horns that curl at the sides of his head like antlers.
He stands silently where he is, lingering between the trees as if he’s as enamored with me as I’m startled by him.
