Clara
Imust have fallen asleep. It takes me a moment to remember what happened and where I am—coming to Germany for Marco’s ‘business trip’, running away from him and his goons, being chased through the Black Forest, stumbling upon this old castle—but when I do, my eyes pop wide open with a gasp.
I’m still in front of the fireplace, the fire down to slowly cooling embers.
The book I was reading is lying face down next to me, and I can hear morning birdsong coming from outside.
My socks look dry, so I pull them on, sighing at how warm they are. Next, I test my boots before lacing them up, then walk over to the shutters. It’s time to see Blackthorn Keep in daylight.
The window and shutters open easily enough, confirming my suspicion that this room gets used at least occasionally. Cold morning air slaps me in the face, waking me up better than any sugary Starbucks drink.
This bedroom overlooks a huge garden that seems oddly well-maintained. If I crane my neck, I can just see the gate I stumbled through. Did I close it behind me? I can’t remember, but it’s definitely closed now.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten in a while. I squint, looking down at the garden. Are those strawberries? Sounds like breakfast to me.
I open shutters as I retrace my steps to the vestibule, letting light in so I can give my flashlight a break. My battery’s getting low, and I still have no signal. I’m going to need to shut it down soon to preserve what’s left, so I can call a taxi when I leave.
Back on the ground floor, I slowly spin in a circle.
“If I were a garden door, where would I be?” I ask the castle. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t reply. But really, if it did, I’d be pretty freaked out.
I turn left, in the direction I think the bedroom above is, letting some more light in as I go.
The candelabras and sconces answer my question of how the hell people see anything here at night.
It’s not like there’s a bunch of flashlights lying everywhere.
In general, this place feels like it froze in time decades ago.
The first door I try is a dry pantry: candles and soap, sacks of flour and beans, barrels of salt and blocks of sugar, spice boxes, nuts and dried mushrooms, jars of vinegar and oil, bundles of kindling, and clay jars labeled in old German.
None of it smells stale, and there are no indications of rodents chewing on anything. Fascinating.
I close the pantry and move on, getting lucky on door number two—the garden. I’m so mesmerized by the sight that I shriek when something brushes against my legs, yowling softly.
“Jesus jet fuel Christ!” I yelp, nearly jumping out of my skin. My hand is at my throat as I gawk at the cat staring up at me like I hurt its feelings by being afraid. “It’s not me, it’s you,” I assure the offended feline.
If cats could roll their eyes, I’m sure this gray furball would do just that. Unbothered, it flounces down the path, heading straight for the berries like it knows my destination.
“Hey, wait for me,” I mutter, following its lead. Now I know why there are no rats in the pantry. But who’s feeding this blue-eyed earmuff after it exterminates all the pests?
I crouch down by a garden bed overflowing with strawberries. The scent is intoxicating, and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes.
Scratching sounds catch my attention, and I squint at the cat. It’s currently digging in the soil. I wrinkle my nose when it turns to place its furry little butt over the hole it made.
“Excuse you?” I grumble. “I was having a culinary moment here.” Sighing, I start picking the strawberries—a girl’s gotta eat, even if she’d rather not have known the source of the fertilizer.
With a full mouth and pink fingers, I start exploring the rest of the garden.
It has a little bit of everything: cucumbers, tomatoes, string beans, bell peppers, cabbage.
Toward the back, there’s even a field which I guess will yield potatoes and corn.
The other side has a small orchard, the apples just starting to ripen.
The cat follows me around, occasionally stopping to sniff at things like a dog.
“You’re peculiar,” I tell it. When it looks up at me like it knows I’m talking to it, I frown. “What should I call you, anyway?”
I kneel beside it, and it lies on its back, exposing its belly. I take the little brass collar tag in my fingers, turning it over. The front says ‘Blackthorn Keep’.
“Well, that’s not your name.” I look at the back. “Schmetterling. You don’t look like a butterfly. I’ll just call you Shmoo.”
I risk scratching his belly and get rewarded with purrs. Questionable hygiene practices aside, he is kind of cute.
Suddenly, Shmoo’s ears turn, and he jumps to his feet, padding away around the corner.
“Hey, where are you going?”
I brush my knees off and follow. As I round the corner, I just see Shmoo’s gray tail disappear inside a barn. Once I see it, I start smelling it and... was that a moo?
“This place is full of surprises.”
But I’m getting increasingly worried that someone is here more often than I thought. Maybe I should get out of here before I’m caught snooping like Goldilocks. The only way that scenario is hot is if the three bears are shifters with lumberjack vibes.
I push on the barn door, and it opens with a creak, making a gap just large enough for me to pass through. It’s darker in here, but that’s definitely a cow. And those are chickens. None of the animals look hungry or neglected.
“What in the world?”
Blackthorn Keep went from semi-abandoned to obviously lived in. I need to get out of here.
“Bye, guys,” I tell the animals, backing out slowly.
I pick up the pace once I’m outside, making my way across the garden, then the keep, the atrium, and I’m back outside, panting as I speedwalk like I’m wearing a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit.
At the gate, I turn and look up one more time. Shit, I left the shutters open.
“It’ll be fine, someone’s going to come and close them,” I whisper.
I tug on the wrought iron handle.
Nothing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble, using both hands to pull harder.
Nothing.
I stumbled in, right? So it doesn’t open the other way.
But I try anyway.
Nothing.
“This can’t be happening,” I breathe.
Through the orchard—there has to be a way out there.
Determined, I march back into the keep, through the atrium, the vestibule, the hallway, and out the garden door. Shmoo falls into step halfway through the cabbage patch, and together we head for the treeline.
I hope he knows his way home, because I won’t be coming back.