4. Ryan #2
With that cryptic warning, he turns and walks back toward the gap in the wall. I watch his retreating figure, trying to make sense of this weird encounter.
His warning about the structure hangs in the air between us like a question mark.
“Hey!” I call out before I can stop myself. “What do you mean by structural damage? Is it dangerous?”
He pauses but doesn’t turn around. “The foundation has shifted. The walls are… unstable in places. Your grandfather made… modifications that I’m not sure will hold up against the test of time.”
My stomach knots at his change of tone. “What kind of modifications?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then he glances over his shoulder, eyes catching the light again.
“Alberte Legrand was not a typical man. His cottage reflects that.” He tracks the movement of my throat as I swallow, then adds, “There are spaces that perhaps should not be opened.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, slipping through the gap in the wall, and I’m left alone in the overgrown yard, my mind racing with questions.
I turn back to the cottage, seeing it now with different eyes. The warped door frame, the peeling paint, the water stain on the ceiling—suddenly they seem less like simple neglect and more like clues to something hidden.
I limp back toward the house, wincing a little with each step. The morning sun is climbing higher, and I can feel my skin beginning to prickle with the warning signs of a burn. I need sunscreen, I need shoes, I need about a hundred things I don’t have.
Inside, the cottage feels different too. Even the shadows in the corners seem darker. I move through the sitting room, running my fingers along the walls, wondering what Camille meant by modifications. What could my grandfather possibly have done to this place?
And why the fuck did Camille make it sound so unsettling?
Creepy-ass hot French fuck.
I shake my head, then find myself in the kitchen, staring at the cracked tile floor. The fractures in the grout form patterns that I hadn’t noticed before, radiating outward from a central point near the back wall. I kneel down, ignoring the sting in my foot, and examine the cracks more closely.
They don’t look random. They look like they’re following something beneath the surface—some hidden framework or structure. I press my palm against the center of the pattern, and the tile shifts slightly under my hand.
My heart pounds. This is crazy. I’m imagining things because some neighbor made cryptic comments about my dead grandfather. This isn’t the start of a horror movie.
But the tile moves again when I push harder, and I hear something beneath it—a hollow sound, different from the solid thud of the surrounding floor.
“Shit,” I whisper to the empty cottage.
Do I get some tools and pry open a hole in the floor of an old, secluded, apparently mysterious cottage? My first thought is: hell no.
I’ve watched too many movies where opening old things after ignoring the warning of some creepy dude—or decrepit old lady, I feel like it’s usually an old lady—ends in shit I want no part of.
Releasing an ancient spirit hellbent on enacting revenge?
Hell no.
Finding a shrine or some religious artifact that dooms whoever touches it?
Hell.
No.
I stand back up, stepping away from my possible demise. My stomach chooses right then to rumble, reminding me that maybe instead of worrying about things that aren’t real, maybe I should be focusing on the fact that I have no food.
I open the cupboards one by one—just to check—finding nothing but dust and the occasional dead insect. The refrigerator is empty, its interior smelling of stale air and something faintly chemical. I slam it shut, wincing at the noise in the silent cottage.
I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes, trying to think. I know there are a few shops in town. And I also know they probably don’t do delivery service.
Great. That’s great.
Everything’s great.
Perfect, even.
Motherfucking—
* * *
The walk back from the village takes twice as long as it should. Maybe it’s my karma for crashing out earlier.
My shoulders are tight from carrying the groceries, and my feet ache with every uneven stone I stumble over. The sun beats down on my neck, and I can feel the sweat pouring down my skin.
I adjust the bag containing the pillow and linens, trying to shift the weight, but it doesn’t help.
The items I’ve purchased are basic necessities—bread, cheese, some fruit, pasta, olive oil, coffee.
Essentials that should have been easy to acquire.
Instead, the trip turned into something out of a bad dream.
If I’d hoped for any version of rural French hospitality, this shattered it.
The market itself was a single open room, one aisle barely wide enough to turn around in, with bins of onions and potatoes crowding the threshold and a jumble of handwritten signs explaining specials in loopy, faded marker.
The shelves were packed densely with imports and generic brands, everything more expensive than I’d braced for, the local stuff tucked out of reach or labeled in code.
I moved slowly, reading every can twice, trying, too, not to block anyone’s way.
But it didn’t matter. People stopped and looked.
They didn’t whisper about me or anything, but the feeling I got from it was one of being unwelcome.
The heat had followed me indoors, heavy and vinegary, and I felt myself wilt in the stuffy air.
There was a refrigerator case along the back wall, its compressor wheezing with every cycle, and the only relief was standing in front of it, pretending to choose which milk to buy.
But the longer I lingered, the more I felt the pressure, as if the village was waiting for me to finish and get out.
And the clerk—God, the clerk. I’d practiced my French on the walk there, rehearsing simple phrases. But when I’d attempted to speak, my accent mangling the words, she’d responded in English after scoffing.
“American, yes? English okay.” She’d said it in such a way that it made me feel like she’d scold me if I tried to continue in French.
I’d tried to smile, to be friendly. “Yes, um, I’m new here—”
“Legrand.” She’d cut me off, her eyes narrowing.
It wasn’t a question. The way she said my grandfather’s name made my skin prickle.
“Oh, um, did you know my grandfather?” I’d asked, trying to keep my voice casual.
She’d turned away, busying herself with something behind the counter. “Oui. Everyone knows him.”
The implication hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning I couldn’t decipher. I’d completed my purchases in silence after that.
Now, as I trudge along the path that leads back to the cottage, I can’t shake the feeling that something is deeply wrong. And I don’t think that it’s just that I’m an American outsider. What I experienced in that market was something else entirely.
Camille’s words echo in my mind, so similar to the shopkeeper’s. “Everyone here knew of Alberte Legrand.”
I should have done a hundred things differently, but most of all, I’m starting to think I should’ve asked more questions about my grandfather before coming here.
By the time the cottage comes into view through the trees, my arms have gone past aching and entered a state of distant, buzzing numbness, and the rough paper handles of the grocery bags have carved deep red grooves into my fingers.
I stagger up the last stretch of path, fantasizing about dropping everything onto the kitchen floor and lying face down beside it until either the sun sets or someone finds my dehydrated corpse.
Then I notice the basket on the doorstep.
It is the sort of thing displayed in the window of an expensive shop around Christmas, deep and rectangular, woven from dark wicker and lined with cream-colored linen.
A black ribbon has been tied around the handle in a neat bow, and a sprig of something green and fragrant has been tucked beneath the knot.
Rosemary, maybe.
Or some poisonous French plant designed to kill unsuspecting American homeowners.
Considering how today has gone, I’m not ruling anything out.
I remain several feet away, staring at it as sweat trickles down the side of my face.
The basket had not been there when I left.
I’m certain of that. I’d spent several minutes fighting with the front door before realizing I had to lift it slightly while turning the key, and there had been nothing on the step except dirt, dead leaves, and a spiderweb stretching from the door frame to the rusted porch light.
Now there is an expensive-looking gift sitting in the middle of all that as though it has been delivered to the wrong house.
A white card rests against the handle.
My name is written across the front.
Ryan.
Not Mr. Smith. Not Monsieur Legrand. Just Ryan.
Camille.
No one else here knows my first name. Honestly, based on my reception at the market, I’m not sure anyone else would bother learning it before running me out of town with torches and farming equipment.
Fuck, no. I’m sure they’re just not used to new faces, especially non-French ones. I take a deep breath in and out, trying to dispel the paranoia growing inside me.
I drag myself the rest of the way to the cottage, lower the bags onto the ground, and flex my throbbing fingers. The relief is so immediate I almost moan.
The basket smells faintly of bread, herbs, and something sweet.
There does not appear to be anything dead inside it, which feels promising.
I pick up the card, turning it over in my hand before opening the envelope. The message is written in English.
Ryan,
The village is not always gracious to strangers, particularly those who arrive carrying an old name. Please accept what it has failed to offer you.
Camille Moreau
Underneath his name, separated from the rest of the message by a small gap, is a small added note.
Wear shoes.
A reluctant laugh slips out of me. “Asshole.”