Chapter 11
I looked at the sad mattress and regretted not doing more to sort out my sleeping arrangements.
My towel was now damp, of course, and I had nothing to sleep under unless I wanted to catch a cold.
At least the house was warmer now I’d figured out how to use the boiler.
I went digging through my suitcase to find something else I could use as a blanket.
I’d left so quickly, I could barely remember what I’d brought with me.
The whole process had been a blur, as if I’d watched someone else packing in a dream.
I flipped the light switch to help me look.
Pale yellow light from the single naked bulb painted a golden circle in the centre of the bedroom.
At the bottom of the case I found my terrycloth dressing gown.
An old Christmas gift from my mother. One of those things that seemed indispensable to older generations yet completely forgettable to mine.
I rarely, if ever, wore it back in Edinburgh.
It had hung on the back of my bedroom door, a spectre in the night.
Well, I was certainly glad of it now. I’d never look down on gifts of slippers, socks and dressing gowns ever again.
I draped the dressing gown over the bed and took a moment to appreciate my ingenuity.
It wasn’t much, but it was starting to feel a bit better.
Light, something cozy to snuggle up under, a charged phone, a full belly—even if it was just tinned chilli and a few slices of sandwich bread.
It was almost bearable now. I could do this. I could make a life out here.
I dried off, changed into my pyjamas and settled into bed.
The internet hadn’t been set up yet—I hadn’t been able to find a router—so I couldn’t spare the data for a podcast. Instead, I played puzzles on my phone—one of my tactics to keep my many, many thoughts at bay—until my eyelids started to droop.
I had almost fallen asleep, when a scream pierced the twilight.
I kicked the dressing gown off me in fright.
It had come from outside. The periwinkle blue of the dusk outside felt like it was peering in on me.
I gripped the mattress beneath me, eyes not daring to leave the window.
I spied a face floating in the gloom. It was mine, mirrored back to me in the glass.
The scream came again.
A fox. A fucking fox.
I collapsed back into the mattress. So much for my relaxing bedtime.
I thought the countryside was supposed to be tranquil, calming.
But you forget, don’t you? All of the wilderness, the life out there, animals going about their business without a care for bedtimes, or mental health breaks, or any human ideas of calm and order.
If the fox wants to scream, she just screams.
Lucky fox.
Well, time for bed anyway. I looked about for a light switch, then realised the only one in the room was the one right next to the bedroom door.
Oh no. My toes curled instinctively. I would have to turn off the light then run back to my bed in the dark.
Even if I hadn’t just been scared out of my skin by a fox, the prospect would have filled me with dread.
Oh God, don’t be so immature, I thought. You’re too old to be imagining boogie men.
I took a deep breath, got up and walked to the bedroom door.
My finger hovered over the light switch.
Did I remember to lock the front door? What about the windows? What if someone snuck in in the night and—
I reached for the door latch and stopped.
I swallowed. My palms went cold.
Are you too scared to look? Do you need Daddy to come check under the bed for you, too? Grow up!
I forced open the bedroom door and peered out onto the landing.
The tap in the bathroom dripped. The stairs lay silently under the light of the pale night sky.
I could just about see the front door from where I leant out over the first step.
It was closed. And there was the chain, just where I knew it would be.
See. I exhaled. This is your house. Nothing in it but you.
I shut the bedroom door. Then, in quick succession, I turned off the light, ran to the bed and threw the dressing gown over myself.
I lay in the dark, waiting for my pulse to calm down, feeling more than a little silly.
Everything was fine. Just a bedroom at night.
I watched the sky darken to indigo and thought of the fox outside with her solitary life.
As I drifted into sleep, the fox came with me.
At first, she just followed me as I made the walk into the village, matching my steps, hiding in my shadow.
Then she appeared in front of me on the road.
I tried to pass by, but every step I took, she took too, mirroring my movements, blocking my way.
Before I could shoo her away, she leapt up on me, covering me head to toe with her fur.
She was surprisingly heavy. I struggled to walk upright, so I wobbled into Carlinsrest, gripping onto the fences with my front paws, opening doors by gripping the handles with my sharp teeth.
But no one I met could see the fox I was covered with.
The woman at the café, the ramblers from the road, the teenagers by the monument.
They all welcomed me with “Morning’s” and polite waves, then flinched as I struggled to wave back, my black claws striking at the air in front of their faces.
The woman from the café asked me if I was alright.
I tried to answer back, “No, there’s a fox on my back.
Or I think I’m turning into a fox. Or maybe I’ve always been a fox and now I’m only just realising.
” But every time I opened my mouth, all I could do was scream.
I went all around Carlinsrest, screaming at people, until everyone started to avoid me, crossing the street, turning away from my desperate gaze.
Rowan, the man from the hardware store, he was the only one who tried to help me.
But the moment he got close, I clamped my jaw around his wrist, so he couldn’t leave.
And I knew I was hurting him—I could see the skin tearing around my teeth—but I couldn’t let go.
I was so afraid he’d run away and then no one would look at me and I’d be alone and…
The old man was watching me from the bridge. Him and his dog. His wiry grey hair reached up into the sky like branching horns. He clutched the handles of the wheelchair carrying the sleeping old woman, and grinned.
There was a drumming sound.
The old woman in the chair stirred in her sleep.
The drumming grew louder.
No, not drumming. Footsteps.
Someone was in my bedroom.
I jerked awake.
Footsteps skittered across the bedroom floor.
The mattress juddered with the force of them.
It stopped. I forced myself up through the antechamber of sleep, my limbs still heavy and ignoring my pleas to get up get up get up.
My eyes adjusted to the dark just in time to catch a shadow dart across the open bedroom door.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
They thundered down the stairs. Adrenaline flooded through my veins. Half-asleep, my scream turned into a whistle in my throat. I leapt up out of bed and threw myself toward the light switch.
The light from the bare bulb banished the shadows, stinging my eyes. I wished I’d grabbed my phone instead. I should call for help! There’s an intruder in my home! But the house was quiet. Maybe I should check first. I leant back out onto the landing again, looking for who had invaded my home.
Downstairs was dark and silent. I found the light switch at the top of the stairs.
Nothing scampered away from the light. Slowly, muscles tense, I made my way downstairs.
My axe lay on the floor by the basement door.
I quietly picked it up then checked the front door.
Still locked. No sign of any tampering. With a squeeze of courage, I poked my head down into the basement.
That plastered outline was still sealed over.
Not a crack. I had to squint to even see it.
I furrowed my brow. I’d definitely heard footsteps. Felt them, even! They’d practically run down the stairs. But how could that—?
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
My head jerked toward the fireplace. It sounded like my neighbour just ran up her stairs.
I sank to my knees and wiped my face with my hand.
I’d probably just heard her next door and in my half-asleep state filled the darkness with monsters.
The dull screech of furniture on wood reverberated through the wall. Well, so much for my quiet night.
I stood up and gripped the axe handle. Even with an explanation, I still felt deeply unsettled. Having a weapon nearby wouldn’t be a bad thing.
I climbed back up the stairs, turned off the landing light and shut the bedroom door, flinching at the sound of its hinges.
Then I stopped.
I looked at the bedroom door again.
When I’d bolted awake just now, I could have sworn I’d seen a shadow through the open door.
But I’d closed the door before going to bed, hadn’t I?