Chapter 3
I’ve never been good in the cold weather. Honestly, some of us were born to live on holiday, and I’m one of them.
The freezing air nips at my skin as I struggle through the deep snow. Unsurprisingly, I don’t have the shoes with me for this, but thankfully we’re able to follow the directions on Dylan's phone just in time, before his battery finally succumbs to the cold – I’m surprised it lasted longer than me, to be honest with you.
We have arrived at our destination, it would seem.
You know, it’s not all that often I question my life choices, usually I’m pretty happy with how things have turned out. Every now and then, though – usually when I’m with Dylan – I do wonder to myself: how the hell did I get here? And today is definitely one of those days.
In the distance a house begins to appear, barely standing out in the snowy landscape. The first thing I notice is the light, shining like a beacon of safety in the middle of the worst blizzard I have ever seen in real life.
‘Christ, she must be loaded,’ Taz blurts.
As we get closer I realise that it’s a farmhouse, painted in muted tones, battered by the weathered marks of time. It looks old, and big, and inexplicably like it has seen some things over the years. It has a wooden porch with a swing sweat, which I imagine usually gives off quaint countryside vibes, but watching it chaotically flail around in the wind makes it seem like it’s possessed, which only makes everything seem creepier. I need to get horror movies out of my mind.
‘Looks like it'll be warm and well-stocked,’ Mikey points out, his breath forming clouds in front of him. then he laughs to himself. ‘Listen to me, I sound like I’m in a zombie apocalypse movie.’
So much for getting horror off my brain.
‘I've just started watching The Walking Dead . I'm prepared for anything,’ Jamie announces with a confidence he in no way deserves to have.
‘Well, if years of training to be a mechanic couldn’t help you to fix the bus, a few episodes of a TV show won't make you any use in a zombie apocalypse, will they?’ Dylan claps back. ‘Unless we threw you to the zombies, to eat, seeing as though you’ve got the most meat on you.’
‘Piss off,’ Jamie dares to clap back.
I can’t say that I’m not nervous, as we approach the house, but as warm light spills out from the windows, and smoke curls from the chimney above, I can’t say that it doesn’t look inviting.
Dylan boldly steps forward and gives the front door a loud knock. The door swings open – almost instantly – to reveal a young woman. She’s all dressed up, like she’s going to a party, but she only looks seventeen or eighteen – oh, and we are in the middle of a blizzard, so I doubt she’s going anywhere. Her eyes widen as she sees Dylan, and a mischievous smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
‘Oh my God, Dylan, hi,’ she blurts excitedly, pulling him in for a hug. ‘I wasn't sure you'd actually show up but here you are, oh my God, I can’t believe it.’
Dylan stares at her blankly.
‘Hi guys,’ she says, turning to the rest of us. ‘I’m Kitty.’
As I notice Dylan’s eyes widen with horror I realise that this must be the fan who he was talking to. She’s definitely younger than she seemed online, and she definitely looks nothing like her photo.
Dylan, being the big ball of charisma that he is (and knowing that we’re in a bind) seems happy to go with the flow.
‘Kitty, we can’t thank you enough for doing this for us,’ he tells her with a smile. ‘This is one hell of a place you’ve got here.’
Wait… what is that…? I blink frantically, as though my eyes are betraying me. An older woman with long white hair, wearing a cream nightdress, with an unmistakably ghostly complexion appears out of nowhere. A man, probably in his fifties, soon joins her. He somehow looks grumpy and welcoming.
‘Guys, these are my parents, Trish and Pat,’ Kitty makes the introductions. ‘Mum, dad, this is Dylan King – the Dylan King – and his brother, Mikey, then there’s Taz, Jamie and…’
As her eyes stop on me she looks me up and down, a look on her face like she’s just caught a bad smell.
‘Who are you?’ she asks me plainly.
‘I’m Nicole,’ I say.
‘Well, hello there! Come on in, dearies. We've been expecting you,’ Trish says with a warm but oddly intense smile that makes me kind of uneasy.
Pat, a tall figure with a similarly welcoming yet chilling vibe, chimes in as he physically moves his daughter to one side.
‘Yes, yes! You all must be freezing out there,’ he adds. ‘Do come in. Kitty is thrilled to have you.’
I exchange glances with the band, trying to decipher the vibes here. Still, I have no choice but to follow them indoors. As the heat hits my body, soothing my frozen bones, it almost tricks me into relaxing. Even if I can stick it out here for an hour, before I have to run for my life, at least I will have defrosted first.
‘Thanks so much, Trish, Pat,’ Dylan says, offering Pat a hand to shake. ‘You're real lifesavers. We thought we were going to be stuck out there all night. I can’t believe the weather.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Trish says, lowering her voice, narrowing her eyes. ‘Snowfall like this, in February, during a leap year, is said to awaken the spirit of old Lord Arthur Stump.’
Her eyes lock onto mine, and I can't help but feel an involuntary shudder.
‘Who's Lord Arthur Stump?’ Mikey asks, clearly intrigued.
‘Oh, he was a fella hanged from the old oak tree out back, centuries ago. Accused of aiding witches,’ she explains. ‘But, lucky for you, it's not a leap year this year.’
Trish holds her serious expression for a few more seconds before she erupts with a witchy cackle. I can’t tell if she’s laughing because she just made that up or because it’s true but she finds it absolutely hilarious.
Lucky is the last thing I feel right now.
‘Kitty thinks you’re the best thing since poached herring,’ Pat tells Dylan which – I could be wrong, because it sounds wrong – I think is a good thing.
‘Yeah?’ Dylan replies, smiling warmly.
‘Oh yes, she never stops talking about you,’ Pat continues.
‘Dad,’ Kitty moans, her cheeks flushing lightly.
‘We’re just all so lucky you came to our aid,’ Mikey says.
‘We’re good Samaritans,’ Pat insists. ‘We would never leave a fellow man – or woman – in need. It is, however, late, so perhaps it would be best if we all retire to bed.’
‘Yeah, no worries, we really appreciate it,’ Dylan says.
For a few seconds, everyone falls silent, until…
‘Dylan can sleep in my room,’ Kitty blurts excitedly.
The colour drains from Dylan’s face, his neck, his hands – even his tattoos seem to fade.
‘Oh, no, sorry, I can’t,’ he insists almost frantically. I can see the cogs moving in his brain, as he tries to think on his feet. ‘It’s Nicole. She’s my girlfriend, so…’
I don’t think there is a person in this room who sounds surprised to hear him say that, but I think it’s safe to say that I’m top of the list.
Dylan snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me close, kissing me on the cheek.
‘Really?’ Kitty says. ‘ I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’
It is interesting, the way fans think they truly know a person, just because they like their music. I can’t say much, given that I’m a music journalist, but there is this almost unquenchable thirst for information, to know every last detail about their lives, every move they make, everywhere they go.
Then again, I can’t blame Kitty for being surprised. Dylan King – the Dylan King – having a girlfriend would definitely be front-page news.
‘Yeah, look, see,’ Dylan adds as he pulls me closer, nuzzling his face into my neck, making weird kissy noises.
Were I not so taken aback by, well, this entire scenario and all the bizarre twists and turns it is taking, I would probably be laughing at the fact that this is Dylan’s interpretation of what you do with a girlfriend.
‘Not married then?’ Pat asks, his face serious, his tone stern.
‘Huh?’ Dylan replies.
‘The two of you, you’re not married,’ he says again.
‘No, they’re not,’ Kitty tells her dad, her mouth twisting into a smug little grin.
‘Then you won’t be sharing a bedroom under my roof,’ Pat points out.
‘Yeah, no worries,’ Dylan tells him.
Obviously we weren’t expecting to share a room, and we’re not a real couple, so we don’t care.
‘Dylan, we have a room for you, and the other three…’
Pat pauses, as he mentally arranges us. I glance at the “other three” who look about as livid as you would expect them to be, at the idea of the band being categorised as “Dylan” and “the other three”.
‘…the other three, you can go in the workers’ accommodation,’ Pat continues. ‘There are two sets of bunk beds in there.’
Two sets of bunk beds, so four beds – does that mean I’m going in there? It won’t be much different to sleeping on the bus with them, to be honest, although at least on the bus you have a little curtain for privacy. Anyway, it’s just for one night, I’m sure they can refrain from anything they might need a curtain shield for, like sleeping naked, or worse .
‘Me too?’ I check.
‘No, goodness, of course not,’ Pat replies. ‘I’m sure Dylan would be horrified, if his partner were to share a room with various men.’
“Various men” might actually be even more offensive than “the other three” – equally as hilarious though.
‘Oh,’ I say simply. ‘So, I’m…?’
‘You can share a bedroom with Kitty,’ Pat announces.
‘Oh, what fun,’ Trish says with a giddy clap. ‘Like a slumber party. Don’t you girls be keeping us up late having pillow fights and sharing secrets now, will you?’
Jamie opens his mouth, as if he’s about to crack a dirty joke, but we’re all expecting it. Thankfully, Mikey jabs him with an elbow before he gets the chance.
‘Oh, there’s no need, really,’ I insist, because, my God, I do not want to share a room with this random girl. ‘I’ll go in with the boys, or sleep on the sofa, I don’t mind…’
‘Nonsense,’ Pat insists. ‘You will only be in the next room from one another, there’s no need to pine or fret. Now, it is late, we should all head to bed. Trish will show you to your room, Dylan, and I’ll take the other three. Kitty, show Nicole to your room.’
‘Fine,’ she says with a huff, clearly as unimpressed as I am with the situation. ‘Come on, you.’
I glance over at Dylan. There isn’t a hint of anything on his face. His expression is blank, he’s motionless – not even his eyes are moving. I know Dylan though so, believe me when I say this, behind that stony fa?ade his is screaming with laughter at the idea of my having to share a room with Kitty. It’s as though he’s telepathically letting me know just how funny this is, but this is a two-way communication method, so I’m silently transmitting back to him that he can piss off.
I take a deep breath before following Kitty up the stairs.
The stairway winds around in the centre of the house, meaning it has no windows, just a little light coming from electric-powered candle lights on the walls – not very bright ones at that. The brown striped wallpaper is covered with framed photos of the family, just the three of them, along with various pictures of the farmhouse and the land that surrounds it. There’s something creepy about the photos – something that I can’t quite put my finger on. They have this almost dark, washy tone to them, like they weren’t developed properly, making them look like something you unearth in an attic in a horror movie. The composition is off on some of the family photos too, as though there were a fourth member, who had been erased – for goodness sake, I am creeping myself out again. This needs to stop. This is just a house. They are just a family, and there is nothing alarming, or concerning, or…
My thoughts taper off as I follow Kitty into her bedroom.
It was obvious from the moment she invited us to stay that she was a big fan of Dylan, but nothing could have prepared me for this. This isn’t a bedroom; it’s a Dylan King shrine.
Almost every inch of every wall is plastered with posters, magazine clippings, and photos, all of Dylan. Sure, some of them have “the other three” in, but that seems little more than circumstantial. One photo in particular, that Kitty has obviously printed out from Dylan’s Twitter page, catches my eye more than any other, because it’s one that is so familiar to me. It’s a photo taken backstage at a gig of Dylan with his arm around me, except the version Kitty has is a little different. There’s Dylan, and there’s me (or my body, at least), but Kitty has stuck a picture of her own face over mine. Kitty is clearly head over heels in love with Dylan, and absolutely out of her tree.
I swallow hard, my eyes darting around the room, because the only thing even more alarming than all the photos (including the one she has removed me from) is the fact that there is only one bed in here.
No. God, no. Tell me I do not have to share a bed with this girl? Sharing a room with her is bad enough – sharing a house with her is, to be honest, pushing me way out of my comfort zone too – but sharing a bed?!
‘Do you have spare blankets and pillows?’ I ask her. ‘So that I can get set up on the floor.’
I glance down at the wooden floorboards that have seen better days. They look cold and hard and they’re full of gaps – perfect for all kinds of spiders to creep up through, I’ll bet.
‘No,’ she tells me as she changes into her nightgown. ‘I guess we’ll just have to put up with each other. Here.’
Kitty throws a spare nightgown at me. It’s a long, white, old-fashioned-looking thing. The kind of thing you would wear to haunt someone, for sure.
‘Oh, that’s okay, I can sleep in my t-shirt,’ I insist. ‘But thank you.’
‘You’re not wearing outside clothes in my bed,’ she replies. ‘It’s a house rule. So, thank you , for wearing the nightgown.’
This is a nightmare – a genuine nightmare – or maybe it’s worse because, honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream about anything so messed up in my life.
I don’t see what choice I have other than to awkwardly change into the nightgown – used every tip and trick I learned in the PE changing rooms at school – and then climb into bed next to her.
I’m sure it goes without saying that, out of the five of us (me, Dylan, Mikey, Jamie and Taz) I am the least likely to end up in a bed with a random girl – although if I said that to Dylan, he would probably joke that it was Jamie who was the least likely.
Kitty switches off the lights and I’m not sure if it makes things better or worse. Sure, it was strange, when I had hundreds of pairs of Dylan’s eyes staring at me, but now that we’re in the darkness, I don’t know, I almost miss the feeling of him watching over me, protecting me even.
In the darkness, and the silence, I wonder to myself how on earth I’m going to be able to sleep. Is Kitty sleeping? I can’t hear a sound from her, not even the sound of her breathing (not that I’m missing it or anything). Thankfully I can’t feel her next to me either. This isn’t a big double, but I’m finding it easy enough to keep some space between us, although I am quite close to the edge. Somehow falling out of bed seems like the least of my worries.
The silence continues for a few more minutes, until…
‘He doesn’t love you, you know,’ Kitty says, breaking the silence.
No, I suppose he doesn’t, or there’s no way I would be in this situation right now.
My God, this is intense, and creepy, and Dylan might have protected himself from a crazy fan by claiming that I’m his girlfriend, but it definitely feels like he’s thrown me under the bus.
And now I have to sleep, and I don’t feel any less worried about axe murderers now that I’m here, and you better believe I’ll be having words with Dylan in the morning.
If I make it to the morning, that is.