Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning greets me with a flood of bright light.
I stir from under the covers, stretching into the emptiness of the antique four-poster bed, muscles loose but tinged with unease—like I’ve spent the night steeped in a horrible nightmare I can’t remember.
As I slowly sit up and rub sleep from my eyes, distantly I realize it’s not a nightmare from my dreams that’s caused the unease. It’s the waking moments I experienced beforehand that have brought it on.
My first night on Mr. Taylor’s estate was… disturbing, to put it mildly.
I spent the evening trying to focus on the job at hand when creaks and groans sounded from different parts of the house. Footsteps thudded from the entryway hall and on the stairs, only to turn up no results when I investigated.
The black glass that was the windows made it feel like eyes were watching me from the outside—and someone was on the inside with me.
There was no escaping the attention of whoever—or whatever—I had attracted.
Then, as if matters couldn’t get any worse, I came up to my bedroom to find a gift waiting for me on the bed.
Sheer, lacy lingerie that left little to the imagination.
For you.
A shudder works through me even thinking about it. For a while, I sit up in bed and stare around the quiet room bathed in bright morning light and process the fact that I’m not imagining these things.
They really happened.
…right?
I shake my head and push aside the covers to get out of bed.
The house looks decidedly less haunted in the morning.
I shower, luxuriating in the hot water and rolling steam, and then change into a thick cable-knit sweater and leggings. Snow boots are the final touch as I grab my sketchbook and venture outside my room for the first time since last night.
The air in the hall carries the same woody, smoky smell as last night. Except in the light of day it’s slightly less intense and intimidating.
That turns out to be the case with most of my perceptions of the Taylor estate. In the light of day, what felt like a creaking, unnervingly spooky mansion last night seems totally harmless.
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 the money. 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.
His gaze is fixed on me. I don’t need to see the whites or pupils of his eyes to know. His stare is visceral enough to send a sharp shiver down my spine.
I decide going still is my best bet. I don’t move, remaining in place as a long, tense, uncertain moment passes where we stand and peer at each other.
But that doesn’t mean the cold isn’t creeping down the back of my neck. My fingers twitch along the edges of my sketchbook. My brain searches for even an ounce of logic, for some rational explanation for what I’m seeing, only to come up short.
Who is this man? What’s he doing here? Is he the monster that’s been haunting me? Am I losing my mind and imagining him?
I take a step back, the first movement I’ve made in over a minute. As if responding to the move, he shifts forward.
Another tense, unsettled moment passes before I make a snap decision.
I take off running.
Not toward the house—he’s between me and the path leading back to Mr. Taylor’s home. Instead, I cut hard to the side, past the snow-flaked cottage and into the trees, my feet sinking deeper in the snow as I plunge into the forest.
Branches lash at my arms. My breath tears from my chest in panicked bursts. Every inch of me urges my legs to move faster and further.
…or else.
The matter becomes life or death as I scramble through the trees in more frantic desperation than I’ve ever felt in my life.
But the woods are endless.
The trees all look the same—tall and thick and burled, serving as obstacles I must twist around and weave through the farther I run.
My pants for air grow heavier, more desperate, as I push past brambles and shrubs and earn the nicks and cuts like battle scars.
It quickly feels like no matter how hard I run, the mystery man in the mask barrels after me. I push myself faster than I’m used to yet his feet pound behind me, ever harder and closer as he gains ground.
A strangled cry leaves me as I hang a hard left, almost slipping in the snow, trying to throw him off my trail.
But it’s difficult when being chased by a man that’s as good as a beast—and as predatory as he charges after me, never once slowing up or showing signs this is anywhere close to over.
My fear becomes a scent in the air as I pant and sprint and pray I’ll somehow make it out of this.
What the hell is going on? Who the hell is chasing me into the woods? Where the hell did he come from, and what does he want?
Even more unanswered questions materialize in my mind than when I’d found the box on my bed last night.
None of it makes sense.
I don’t look back, knowing it would only panic me and slow me down further. My boots punch through the snow with jarring, uneven force, each step more desperate than the last as the terrain turns unforgiving.
The woods thicken, more trees and branches than ever, forcing me to slow up as I make my way through them cutting myself up.
My breath saws through my lungs, harsh and erratic, from both exertion and the intense fear and thrill from the chase.
But even as I force my way through more trees, I know I’m not safe. I stagger to a stop, heaving icy air into my lungs as it occurs to me I’m not alone.
He’s here.
He’s followed me every step of the way.
Predator and prey—he’s lurking among the trees as my thighs burn and lungs ache.
I wipe sweat from my brow and try to think through the haze in my mind. If I could somehow circle back toward the house, then I could—
“Ahhh!” I scream as he suddenly appears like a freight train.
He’s barreling toward me, appearing from behind a broad tree.
My heel sinks deeper into the snow as I try to take off running. But I’m not fast enough as I turn in the direction that’ll lead me back to the mansion, and the mysterious masked man quickly gains ground.
The cold air bites as I gasp and fight through the snow, but my legs are so weak and I’m so depleted, that even as I urge myself to go faster, I can’t. Physically, I’ve maxed out.
I lose my footing on a small slope, crashing into a snowbank that eats half my body in one swallow, the breath knocked out of me in a wheezing gasp. I scramble up, fingers digging into the icy flakes, but it’s already too late.
I’m ripped up from the ground by tight, broad arms. Plucked from the snowy earth like nothing.