Tell me something, my sweet pet. Will your consent be enthusiastic, dubious, or non-existent? It matters little to me since you’re already mine.
Sleep well. I will visit you tonight. There’s no need to be afraid of me.
Not yet.
NINE
I haven’t seen Mrs. Fairfax since that first breakfast, but every morning a meal shows up outside my door before I wake. Pathetic how I miss the woman I couldn’t stand days before. Footsteps echo through the hallway in the evening as she retires to bed, but each night when I open the door, she’s gone.
She wasn’t joking when she said there were only two employees at Rochester Manor. There’s her, and a groundskeeper who ignores me like I’m a ghost. Once, I ran across the lawn to introduce myself, but he vanished into the trees.
I’m so lonely I could die.
There’s no sign of Mr. Rochester. I keep hoping he’ll appear at my door, offer some assignment, or demand my attention. Anything. But he’s gone. Like he was never real at all.
By the second week, I’ve lost track of the days. I eat, I explore, I sleep, I stare. Sometimes I check the same locked doors three times in a row, hoping they’ll miraculously open.
I’m sitting in my room by the balcony, eating enough carbs to burst through my uniform, and wondering if I should hitchhike to see the rest of the island. The estate feels like a dream at the edge of the world. Forests at its front, cliffs at its back. Every time I try to leave, I freeze. Not from fear but from an overwhelming sense of dread. I’m not even agoraphobic.
One morning, I find another path leading down to the cliffs and reach a platform lower down on the rock face. Inside is an opening that looks like it’s been carved into the stone. Beyond stretches a cave, or some kind of alcove. I almost turn back when I catch a glint of light.
Curiosity powers my feet. Or perhaps stupidity. But by the time I’m halfway in, a giant wave surges up and knocks me off my feet. The spray is cold enough to drive the air from my lungs, and before I can even recover, a wave barrels in, nearly dragging me off the ledge.
I stagger out, drenched, coughing out seawater, my heart beating so hard it rattles my teeth. After that brush with death, I stay the hell away from that side of the estate.
Another day, I explore the paths leading to the gates, finding thickets of trees on either side. The road stretching outside leads to infinity, and I remember the chauffeur driving us for miles. I venture into the estate’s wooded area for the hell of it but stop when I find a creepy pet cemetery with crude gravestones.
Most of the names are written in childish script, with some names crossed out. It’s like the keeper of this place is some kind of psychopath. My skin crawls, and the paranoia that’s kept me alive wonders if the bones really belong to animals. Either way, I’m not about to stick around to investigate.
When boredom around the house becomes unbearable and silence pulls my last nerve taut, I remember how idle hands make the devil’s work and find a duster in a supply closet. I wipe down every surface I can find, just to fill the hours. My arms ache from the work, and sweat drips down my spine. When I finally check my phone, it’s only been thirty minutes.
Even prison is beginning to sound appealing.
At least in jail, I’d have cellmates. Someone to talk to, even if the guards want to shank me for being a cop killer. Here, I’m going insane from the silence. The only sounds are my own footsteps echoing through empty hallways and the wind rattling windows.
Every night, I still have the same haunting dream. The same man at the door. The same moonlight striping the floor like a stage. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running. Or fighting. Or fucking. His hand trembles on the doorframe like he’s about to push inside, but he never moves closer. Never speaks. Just breathes and stares and makes my skin crawl with terror and need.
The dream always ends the same way. I try to move, try to scream, but I can’t produce anything but a frantic pulse. And in the morning, I wake up with a strange hangover. I tried not drinking the water. Skipping a day of meals. Ditching the soap. But nothing stops them. Something’s in the air. I’m sure of it, but there’s no one to tell.
My phone is useless. No signal, no Wi-Fi, just the time glowing back at me like a digital middle finger. The battery’s on power save mode now, and I only use it as an alarm clock. Sometimes I walk the estate’s perimeter with the phone raised toward the sky like some kind of prayer, trying to catch a single bar. Nothing. It’s like this corner of the island is a dead zone. I try to tell myself that’s agood thing. If I can’t reach the outside world, it can’t reach me.
Since Mrs. Fairfax never replaced the dress, I’ve taken to washing it by hand at night and hanging it from the curtain rod. But each morning, it’s dry and folded on the foot of the bed, even though I lock the door every night.
After days of someone fucking with the dress, I’ve had enough. I leave the garment on the bed and stalk through the halls in search of Mrs. Fairfax to demand answers.
But there’s no sign of life. No indication anyone’s been living here at all. It’s ridiculous because who else could be leaving out food every day? Eventually I give up and return to my room, where the dress is gone from the bed and already hanging in the wardrobe.
I don’t remember putting it there, which means either I’m losing time… or someone’s been in my room.
Most days, I try waking up early to catch Mrs. Fairfax before she delivers the food, but it’s always there no matter what time I open the door. Once, I even sat by the door all night with my ear pressed to the wood, hoping to catch her footsteps. But at some point my eyes drifted shut. When I woke, the tray was already outside. Another time, I thought I saw a shadow slide past my keyhole. I yanked the door open, only to find the hall empty. I stay up late to wait for her, but the moment I hear a hint of movement, sleep takes me down like a drug.
I have no idea what the woman does all day, where she goes, or why.
One morning in the third week, I’m returning from one of my walks when I spot a figure in an upper window. She’s blonde, pale, and gazing out at me like the princess in the tower. My heart skips. This has to be Adele. I wave,feeling like an idiot desperate for human contact, even from a little kid. But she doesn’t wave back or even move away from the window. She just stares, motionless. Like a doll someone forgot to wind up.
I hurry back toward the manor, hoping to get a closer look at the girl. In my haste, I stumble over my feet and splay my hands out for balance. The next time I glance up, she’s gone.
Damn it to hell.
