Chapter 8 #3
stunned I can’t quite figure out what’s happened—this window is closed, but did I leave another open elsewhere in the house?
But the door slammed closed, and besides, the house is so damned cold I know I’ve shut it up as much as is possible.
The only logical explanation I can come up with is that for a split second the wind hit that leaky old frame just right and
somehow . . . somehow? . . . forced an unusually large movement of air in the gaps around the glass.
It’s absolute nonsense, but it’s the best I can come up with.
I fumble to put the Highsmith letters back in order then stuff them back into the box before I scramble to the door, eager
to get out of the storage room. That prickling, uneasy sensation—one I am fast coming to associate with this house—has returned,
and even with all of the layers I’m wearing, I’m so cold my teeth are suddenly chattering. Maybe I’ll take myself for a drive—I
could go browse the bookstore for a while, or maybe I can call Jack or Stef or Patience or anyone else I can think of to see
if they have time to meet me for brunch?
But the house isn’t done with its unpleasant surprises today. I reach for the round doorknob and twist, expecting it to shift the bolt so I can open the door, and find the knob is entirely seized. I can’t even remember seeing this door closed before, but now there’s no apparent way to open it.
My palms and my back are soon burning from effort but I’m getting absolutely nowhere. I twist and I tug and I’m soon close
to tears of frustration but that doorknob refuses to budge even a millimeter and that means the door is latched shut. The
doorknob feels so stiff, it’s like it isn’t even built to open that door.
I tell myself to take a breath, and then I do. I simply need to call someone and ask them to come help.
I pat the place where my pockets should be only to realize I’m still wearing leggings from my walk, and that means my phone
is probably still downstairs, on the kitchen table where I last saw it.
I have no way to mark the time, especially now that I let the grandfather clock wind down so there are no chimes upon the
hour. My mind feels like it’s running at a million miles, turning over and over the mystery of that gust of wind and the slammed
door and the pens on the floor and this impossible feeling I have that I’m not alone in the house.
Eventually, I go back to the boxes of author correspondence. What else is there to distract myself with other than to continue
reading? Every single time I finish with a page, my heart starts to race, and my thoughts right along with it, and I hasten
to pick the next one up.
No one will miss me if I’m trapped in here. Jon or Mia or Caitlin will probably text me today or tomorrow, but it might be
days before they get worried that I haven’t replied.
I have no access to water or a food or a toilet.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
I read a little faster, and soon I’m nearing the end of the last box of author letters.
I haven’t read every word—but I’ve at least skimmed each letter, and I’ve found not one letter from nor even reference to anyone named Charity Wilkie.
It’s confusing, because there’s clearly some connection between Wilkie’s story and this house, and the more I think about it .
. . the more familiar this work seems. It’s
certainly not that I’ve read the book before—I have no idea where the story is even going. There’s just something about Wilkie’s telling of this new story that I’m certain I’ve encountered before.
Suddenly there’s a sound outside—tires crunching over gravel, the low hum of an engine. At first I think I’m imagining it—maybe
it’s wishful thinking? But by the time I scramble to my feet and run to the window, a little red hatchback, an older car and
not one I recognize, is parked beside the verandah. I throw the window up and am immediately met by a blast of cold wind to
the face, but at least this time, that makes perfect sense.
“I’m up here!” I shout to raise my voice over the sound of the wind, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think my visitor
hasn’t heard me—but then she steps down from the verandah, peering up at me in confusion. It’s Erin, Mum and Alan’s tenant.
I’d entirely forgotten Mum was sending her around to help me clean today.
“The door blew shut and I can’t get it open,” I call. The wind is making my eyes water, and I hope that hides the fact I’m
so relieved I’m close to weeping. “I’m stuck in here.”
“How can I help?”
“You might need to go to Mum—see if she still has a key? Maybe Alan will come over and try to force the door . . . Maybe a crowbar? Or maybe the lock just needs some lubricant spray . . . I just don’t know but—” She’s already taking steps towards the car and my heart starts to race at the thought of her driving away.
“Actually, I could have left the front door unlocked . . . Could you try that before you go?”
I can’t remember locking it after my walk and I am so tired today, anything is possible. Besides, when I lived here the first
time, we hardly ever locked the house up—people out here leave their homes unlocked all the time, and there’s at least a chance
I’ve slipped right back into that habit. Erin waves to indicate she understands then she runs back beneath the verandah. I
hear her faint shout of victory and then the front door slams closed behind her.
I slump with relief, leaning heavily against the window frame until it sags ominously beneath my weight. Upon closer inspection
this wood is badly worn, even worse than the other windows in this house. That still doesn’t explain the strange events of
this morning.
There are footsteps in the hallway and then the door swings open. Erin is standing there, one hand on the door handle, a baffled
look on her face.
“How did you do that?” I gasp, rushing towards her. She releases the handle just as I reach for it and I am horrified to find
the doorknob turns easily from the outside, the bolt sliding in and out with each movement. “It must just have been the inside
that was seized . . .” I say, but when I swing the door to reach for the other side of the door handle, I find it turns just