Page 13 of Bonetide

I watch him in the rearview as my speed picks up. He’s still walking, head down now, his dark hair shadowing his face. The fog closes around him. Within a hundred meters, I can’t see him anymore.

I drive home with both hands on the wheel, white-knuckled.

I lock the front door behind me. I double check the lock on the back door. Then I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a beat, trying to ground myself.

The cottage holds its breath with me.

Then the cottage exhales.

There’s a single soft sound from upstairs.

I freeze in place, holding my breath, my eyes seeking the ceiling.

What the fuck was that?

I wait for it to come again.

And it does.

Three steps.

Footsteps, or what would be footsteps if the cottage had anyone else in it. Slow, light, the kind of step a person takes when they are trying not to be heard. Across the guest bedroom floor…

Then it stops.

I do. Not. Breathe.

The cottage settles around me into its ordinary silence. The fridge hums. A bird outside calls once and stops. The rowan at the front step taps the window in the wind.

I immediately reason with myself, tell myself the cottage is old. Wood expands and contracts. Hinges sigh. Old houses make sounds people who have never lived in old houses don’t understand.

It’s just settling. Old houses settle.

And yet I’m having a hard time listening to reason.

I take Effie’s pen-knife from the kitchen drawer because I am not going up the stairs without something in my hand. I unfold it. The blade is short. It is more for opening letters than for anything else, but I could get a good stab out of it. The eyes, I’ll make sure to aim for the eyes.

I climb the stairs, the steps creaking loudly, which would make it impossible for me to ambush anyone up there.

Not that I plan on ambushing anyone. The knife is for defensive stabbing purposes only. I don’t even know why I’m going up there. I should probably run out of the house, though I’m afraid if I do that, I’ll have to live out one of the scariest scenes from The Amityville Horror, running onto the driveway and looking back at the upstairs window to find a giant pig with red eyes staring at me.

Somehow, despite the fear gripping my throat, I get to the second floor and see the guest bedroom door is ajar. I’m pretty sure I left it closed because I was worried about drafts and it making the door bang around, but maybe I didn’t close it properly. In fact, it is a bit breezy out, maybe what I heard was the door banging around a few times.

I take in a deep, shaking breath and push the door the rest of the way open with the back of my hand.

The room is empty.

The low rafters are above me and I duck instinctively, the way I have learned to duck since I cracked my head on them. The single bed is against the far wall under the small window. The pale quilt is smoothed flat.

But there’s something on top of it.

Something small and white…

I creep forward a step.

Is that a…?

I stop and gasp.