Chapter 9 Nicola
Snow. The word slams into my consciousness the moment I crack open my eyes. It's not a polite dusting, either.
This is the real deal: thick, heavy, wet snow, the kind that suffocates sound and bleaches the world to a blurry white canvas.
Shivering despite the quilt, I push myself upright and walk to the window. Yep, white as oblivion out there. It hammers down in sheets so dense that the houses across the street dissolve into blurry ghosts, normally sharp-edged and defined even in the pre-dawn gloom.
Now, everything is soft, muted, swallowed whole by the storm.
My weather app notification announces everything is closed.
I try calling in to school anyway, no answer. Then an email confirming staff to remain home.
A glance at my phone on the bedside table confirms the time: 6:30 AM.
No wonder the lingering dark feels so absolute. And cold. A bone-deep cold seeps in from everywhere. Definitely colder than it should be inside.
I tug the quilt tighter around me, a futile gesture, and go out to the hallway.
My breath puffs into a small white cloud. My fingers fumble with the thermostat in the hall, the dial clicking uselessly.
I c rank it higher, knowing it’s a futile plea.
The ancient furnace in the basement’s been making increasingly worrying noises lately, groaning and wheezing like a geriatric dragon.
Sounds like the fan is really struggling.
Calling someone to look at it has been perpetually punted down my to-do list, partly because money’s stretched tighter than ever, and partly because I’m genuinely terrified of the diagnosis—probably a full replacement, a financial black hole swallowing my entire savings account.
A glance out the front window confirms the blowing snow.
Drifts pile up with alarming speed, swirling and dancing in the wind’s frenzy, and the news report flashing across the bottom of the screen on my small kitchen TV hammers the point home. “Historic Snowstorm Blankets Redwood Hills – Travel Advisory in Effect.” Great. Just what I need.
My phone buzzes on the counter, vibrating against the Formica. A text from Riley. “OMG, Nic! Are you seeing this SNOWPOCALYPSE? I’m at Mom’s, she’s making pancakes, and we can watch bad movies all day. Your heating’s dodgy at the best of times; you’ll freeze in that old place!”
Riley. Sweet, worried Riley. The best friend a girl could ask for.
And logically, she’s right. My house is old, drafty as a sieve, and the heating’s, to put it mildly, questionable.
But… this house. It’s more than just bricks and mortar.
It’s Grandma Ruth’s, my family’s legacy.
Leaving it, especially now, in the teeth of this blizzard, feels…
wrong like abandoning a vital piece of myself.
My thumbs fly across the screen. “Thanks, Riles, but I’m good. Got blankets and sweaters. And stubbornness for days. Plus, I was hoping to get more work done on the bathroom today.” I tack on a smiley face, a weak attempt to soften the stubbornness.
Her reply pings back almost instantly. “Nic, seriously. Come over. Don’t be an idiot.
You’ll be miserable and probably get frostbite trying to paint in this weather.
I know your place is likely freezing. Besides, what if the power goes out completely?
You’ll be stuck in the dark and cold, all alone. ”
She ’s laying it on thick, deploying the guilt card like a seasoned pro.
And a tiny, rational voice in my brain whispers that she’s probably right.
Being alone here if the power fails wouldn’t be fun.
But then another part of me, the fiercely protective part that’s been fighting tooth and nail to keep this house, digs in its heels.
No. I’m not running. I’m staying. I’m going to get something done today, storm be damned.
“I’m fine, Riley. Really. I’m tougher than I look. And I have a fireplace! I’ll build a roaring fire and be all cozy-chic pioneer woman. You go have fun with your mom and pancakes. I’ll be okay.” Another smiley face, extra reassuring this time.
“Okay, but call me if you need anything. And I mean anything, Nic. Even if it’s just to whine about the cold and your stupid furnace.” She adds a winky face, a digital nudge. Riley knows me too well.
“Will do,” I text back. “Have fun!”
Phone down, I head to the kitchen, drawn by the promise of caffeine.
The kitchen is the warmest room in the house, relatively speaking.
The morning sun, even on a day like today, manages to filter through, and the old gas stove, bless its heart, radiates a surprising amount of heat.
As the coffee brews, its rich aroma fills the air, and I wrestle on my thickest sweater, a pair of thermal socks, and my old, paint-splattered jeans. Pioneer woman, reporting for duty.
With my coffee mug warming my hands, I survey my domain.
The living room is a chaotic landscape of drop cloths, paint cans, and half-finished projects.
But progress is visible, tangible. I’ve wrestled one wall into submission, completely painted a soft, warm cream, and the new light fixture, finally installed, casts a brighter, more welcoming glow than the dusty relic it replaced.
Upstairs, the bathroom remains a war zone: The recently patched holes dried grey waiting to be sanded.
That’s the day’s mission. Prep the bathroom walls and get the first coat of paint on.
Get it done. Progress. That’s the mantra.
Keep moving forward, one room, one paint stroke, one nail at a time.
That’s how you save a house. That’s how you save yourself, maybe.
For tified by another mug of coffee, laced with a healthy dose of optimism and caffeine, I resolve to tackle the bathroom. I just need to grab supplies.
The basement. Even in broad daylight, it always feels a little…
off. Today, with the storm raging a muffled war outside and the house cloaked in an unnatural stillness, it feels extra…
basement-y. Damp air clings to everything, thick with the scent of damp earth and so musty.
The single bare bulb hanging precariously from the low ceiling casts long, distorted shadows that move with every gust of wind that rattles the basement windows.
Flipping the light switch at the top of the stairs, its weak glow does little to dispel the oppressive gloom. I descend cautiously, my eyes straining to adjust to the dim light, each step echoing in the cavernous space.
The basement is the archetypal old house basement—unfinished concrete walls weeping dampness, a low ceiling pressing down, a chaotic web of pipes and wires snaking across the joists overhead.
Boxes of forgotten things are stacked haphazardly against the walls, silent relics of generations past. Grandma Ruth was definitely a bit of a pack rat.
Navigating the labyrinthine maze of boxes, I aim for the back corner where I keep paint supplies. This might take a couple of trips. I grab a sanding block, a can of paint and a stir stick. Then, I set out the paint tray and rollers. I grab a plastic drop cloth.
Grabbing the paint first, I wish I had a glove.
That handle digs uncomfortably into the palm of my hand.
Damn. I forgot the big screwdriver to open it!
As I turn to trudge back to the stairs, something grabs my attention…
odd. The basement door at the top of the stairs.
It’s closed. That’s… wrong. I distinctly recall leaving it propped open.
I always leave it open when venturing down here, a sliver of light and air, just in case.
Just in case of what my rational brain can’t quite articulate.
I walk up and try the doorknob, my hand brushes against the icy cold metal. And then I try to turn it. Nothing. Solidly, stubbornly stuck. Really stuck. I try again, harder this time, twisting, pulling, yanking, but the knob remains stubbornly immobi le.
Panic, a cold, sharp spike, lances through me, stealing my breath. Stuck? Seriously?
Frantic, I try pushing the door, thinking maybe it’s just jammed in the frame, warped wood swollen with dampness.
But it’s solid, unyielding, unmoving.
My breath catches, coming faster now, shallow and panicked. Stuck in the basement. Alone. In the heart of a historic snowstorm.
And… oh, crap. My phone. Upstairs. On the kitchen counter. Of course. Why would I bring my lifeline to the basement? Because I’m an idiot, apparently.
Pounding on the door with my fist, the solid wood thuds dully against my knuckles as I yell, “Hello?” My voice echoes back, swallowed by the confined space. “Is anyone out there? Hello!”
Silence answers. Only the muffled roar of the storm raging above and the unsettling creaks and groans of the old house settling deeper into the storm’s embrace. No one. No one can hear me. I’m trapped. Really, truly trapped. In my own basement. Like a scene ripped from a bad horror movie.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of panic. Okay, Nicola, calm down. Think. There’s got to be a way out. There always is. Right? Right.
Taking a shuddering breath, I force down the fear clawing at my throat.
Think logically. Another escape route. A window, maybe?
Old houses always have those tiny basement windows just below ground level, grudgingly admitting a sliver of light.
My eyes, straining in the dimness, scan the concrete walls.
Yes! Over there, in the far corner, almost swallowed by shadow, is a small, grimy window, nearly obscured by the overgrown tangle of bushes pressing against the foundation outside.
Hope flickers, a fragile spark in the oppressive darkness.
Okay, window. That’s my escape. I just need to…
what? Break it? It’s probably ancient, brittle glass, practically crumbling with age.
Maybe I can kick it out? Or… wait. Tools.
There are always tools lurking in the basement’s shadows.
My grandmother, bless her practical soul, had been handy, even if her organizational skills were questionable at best.
Stumbling back through the maze of boxes, my eyes dart frantically, searching for anything that could be weaponized into an escape tool.
Anything to pry open that window, to shatter the glass and let in the blessedly freeing cold air.
Anything to stop the rising tide of panic.
Because right now, trapped in the dark, cold depths of my own house, with the snowstorm raging a white fury outside and no one knowing where I am, I’m starting to feel very, very alone. And very, very scared.