Chapter 7 Danni
DANNI
I know I keep using the word “cozy” to describe the cottage I had apparently inherited, but that’s exactly how it felt inside.
The living area had walls lined with bookshelves.
There were a few books there, but mostly they were empty.
The perfect place to put both my collection of books and my knitting paraphernalia, I caught myself thinking.
I had a whole craft room back home crammed with different kinds of wool and knitting needles and everything else you need to be a semi-professional crafter.
(I’ve heard someone say once that buying new crafting supplies and actually doing the crafting are two separate hobbies and I tend to agree.)
Besides the shelves, there was a roomy overstuffed couch upholstered in sturdy, faded denim. It was studded with crimson, dark green, and burnt orange cushions, all with a button in the center which made them look a little like plump, colorful donuts.
Across from the couch were two chairs, also upholstered in denim.
It may sound like a strange choice, but for some reason it really worked.
The walls were cream colored and the ones that weren’t covered by shelves had posters with different knitting stitches detailed on them.
I wandered closer to the shelves beside the fireplace, where a low flame was crackling, and saw there were stacks of knitting patterns.
Well that makes sense—it was Grandma who taught you how to knit in the first place, that little voice whispered in my head. And suddenly I remembered her doing exactly that—sitting beside me and patiently guiding my fingers as I worked the needles for the first time.
“Wow…” I whispered to myself. I had forgotten that. It was one of the good memories from my childhood. I wondered randomly if I had suppressed more good memories in my effort to keep the bad ones hidden as well.
The living room was surprisingly spacious, considering the size of the cottage.
It could have held another couch and several more chairs if need-be.
Though what need would I have to add even more chairs?
I didn’t even really know anyone in Hidden Hollow yet, so I wasn’t sure why that thought popped into my head.
A warm smell coming from the kitchen at the back of the house caught my attention and made me leave the living room. As I entered the warm, homey room I realized the smell was baking bread. I opened the oven and sure enough—a brown, crusty loaf was right there.
I frowned—did that mean there was someone else here in the cottage?
There must be, right? I mean, how else could there be a fire in the living room fireplace and a loaf of bread in the oven?
Also, was the bread done? It looked done and I remember my Grandma saying, “When you can smell it baking, it’s almost done,” when teaching me how to bake.
Wow—there was another memory I had forgotten about.
“Hello?” I called, shutting the oven door again. “Hey, whoever’s here I think your bread is done? Also, I’m sorry for barging in—it’s a long story but someone left me a key so…”
I trailed off because no one answered me. And just then, the oven timer started to ring, alerting me to the fact that the bread was indeed done.
I pulled open some drawers, finding silverware, a recipe book, and a bunch of utensils including a rolling pin I seemed to remember before I found the oven mitts.
They were the old-fashioned quilted kind—not the silicone ones most everyone uses today.
I slipped them on and took the bread loaf out of the oven.
There was a cooling rack already set up on the counter, so I sat it there.
I looked around a little more and found that the fridge had a jar of homemade strawberry jam in it—just like Grandma used to make.
There was also a package of white American cheese slices, a butter dish with a stick of butter, a quart of milk, and some half and half creamer—all of which smelled good and had recent dates on them.
Well, except for the butter which had been unwrapped and was inside the covered glass butter dish.
I frowned. Seriously, what was going on here? Someone must be in the cottage. Or maybe they had just stepped out and they were going to freak out when they came back in and found me—a total stranger—in their home.
I looked out the back window, which was positioned over the kitchen sink.
I expected to see someone out in the back yard, but there was no one there.
However, there was still plenty to look at—it appeared that someone had planted an enormous vegetable garden out there and a lot of things were ripe for harvest.
I reached under my glasses and rubbed my eyes.
The garden had not been there before—I was sure of it!
There had been nothing but an empty yard.
It must have appeared along with the cottage.
But also, how could everything in it be ripe at the same time?
And how could the vegetables and fruits—because I saw some strawberries peeking out of their green, leafy nests—not be half-frozen since it was clearly Autumn here in Hidden Hollow?
So many things didn’t seem to make sense, but it wasn’t like any of them was hurting me. I shrugged and left the window. Further exploration of the cabinets revealed a few cans of Campbell’s tomato soup—my favorite when I was a kid—and some instant coffee.
The pantry was pretty bare other than that, but I still had the makings of a decent meal—grilled cheese and tomato soup. Which was what my Grandma used to feed me when I came to visit her.
I ran a hand through my hair. There were just too many coincidences—the knitting patterns and all my favorite childhood foods—this must be my Grandma’s cottage.
But where was she? Could it be that she hadn’t really died, but had come back here to Hidden Hollow to live after my mom moved us so far away?
But no—if that was the truth, then the cottage wouldn’t have disappeared, would it? And surely she would have talked to Goody Albright—from the way she had talked about my Grandma, it sounded like they might have been friends or at least close acquaintances.
Bemused, I wandered from the kitchen back to the living room and into the short hallway beyond. It had two doorways—one led into a bathroom with a deep soaking tub. It was charming, even if all of the fixtures—the tub, the toilet, and the sink—were all dusky rose-pink.
It was all very Grandma—she had loved pink and purple and other girly colors and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. There was even one of those old-fashioned toilet paper dolls—the kind with a doll wearing a long, crocheted dress which hides the spare toilet paper roll—sitting on the back of the toilet.
But I wasn’t just looking at the pink toilet or the cute doll—I couldn’t help noticing that the bathtub was filled with soapy, sudsy water which gave off a sweet, floral scent. And it was still steaming, like someone had just drawn a bubble bath and was intending to slip into it at any minute.
“Okay,” I said aloud. “Someone has to be here! Who drew the bath? Who baked the bread?”
But I got no answers and after looking around awhile, I decided I should look at the last room in the cottage—the bedroom.
This was by far the darkest room in the house. Every place else had windows or, in the case of the bathroom, there was an old-fashioned bubble light fixture which shed a golden, antique glow over the tub and sink.
But while the bedroom had a window, it was covered by a shade and also with a curtain, which was drawn across it. It was so dim inside that I could barely see where I was going and nearly bumped into the bedpost of the tall, four-poster bed as my eyes adjusted.
The bedroom was the one place in the house I didn’t seem to feel my Grandma’s presence. The little voice in my head was silent as I looked around. I was feeling along the wall for a light switch when I thought I saw something moving under the bed.
I gave a little gasp and put a hand to my throat. My first thought was, “Roach!”
That’s just what I always think because where I live, we have these huge flying roaches called “Palmetto Bugs.” They’re horrible and they get into your house from time to time no matter how clean you keep it. So that was my first idea when I saw the movement under the bed.
I hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed the broom—which was leaning in one corner, along with a long-handled dustpan. There was no way I was sharing the bedroom with a roach!
I came back to the bedroom and crouched down, the broom in one hand as I prepared to do battle.
“Where are you?” I muttered as I flipped up the bed skirt. “You come out here and—”
The words died abruptly in my throat. Staring back at me from under the bed was a pair of glowing, golden eyes. And then a deep, rumbling voice spoke.
“Ah, my little witch—at last you’ve come home. I can’t wait to hold you again.”