Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
As I walk, my breath comes out in plumes of steam, and the only sound I hear is the crunch beneath my feet. This is too much quiet.
I stop and shine my flashlight up toward the house, then to my sides. I get that it’s cold, but usually there’s an owl, some wind, or a rustle of leaves. Life. Movement. Tonight, the air is so still I hear my stomach growling.
I didn’t eat dinner. I couldn’t.
I shine the beam toward the main house, hesitating. I don’t want to go near there, but there’s only one path through the snow to Bard’s cottage on the other side. It starts from the back porch of the main house.
“Screw this.” I’m being dramatic. There has to be an explanation for what I heard in that bedroom. Maybe Bard was playing a joke on me.
No. Dumb. Bard doesn’t play jokes. He’s a serious man.
So if the voice wasn’t Bard, then who? There must be a rational explanation. I don’t believe there are men chained inside that room any more than I believe monsters are real. It’s ridiculous.
I march defiantly past the back of the main house and follow the path to Bard’s.
“See. Not so hard.” I pass between two large hemlock trees and a thick stand of beech that separates his wood-shingled cottage from the rest of the property. He likes his privacy.
I come up to Bard’s front porch, which is crowded with snow shovels, chopped wood, bags of salt, his ax, and muddy boots.
“Bard? You awake?” I knock on his door. The shutters of his living room, just under the overhang to my right, are closed, but I can see tiny slivers of light through the cracks. He’s either asleep or ignoring me.
I knock again. “Come on, Bard! You can’t stay pissed forever.” A lie. I know he can. The man has a will of iron. “Bard, please? I really need to talk to you.”
I want to tell him what I heard. I need him to say it was in my head and that first thing in the morning, he’ll show me the room is empty.
I pound my fist one last time. “Bard! You petty fucker. I’m sorry I can’t keep the estate, but I don’t deserve this! I’m doing what’s best for you. For both of us.”
I wait, hoping my words’ll sink into that thick skull of his and he’ll come to the door. He knows me. He knows how I sound when I’m worried. And he’s never turned his back on me like this. Just like I’ve never turned mine on him, no matter how angry I felt.
“Fine. This only makes it easier to sell in the summer because there’s no way in hell I’d live here the rest of my life with an asshole like you.”
Part of me wonders if Bard is doing this on purpose—creating a bigger wedge between us. It’s easier for him to walk away from a hostile situation than from one that’s peaceful. The more pissed off he makes me, the more fighting, and the bigger justification he’ll have to leave and never look back. So, yeah, your typical ego-fueled self-preservation.
“Okay, but don’t come knocking in the middle of the night when you have one of your nightmares! I won’t answer.” I start back toward the main house, stomping my way up the icy path. I feel like my head’s about to combust from anger. I’m a loyal person. I’m there for people when they need me, even if I dislike them. If Jim called right now and said he was trapped under his car, I’d come. If Dave said he was choking on his new Rolex, I’d…well, I’d at least call 911.
But is Bard there for me?
No.
Yet he’s come to my door at least twenty times over the last few years, breaking a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably from his nightmares.
He’s never told me what they’re about, and I’ve never pushed. But dammit if I haven’t let him curl up in my lap or made him a stiff drink and put him to bed. My bed. And I know the reason he always comes is because I don’t ask questions. I do what I’m supposed to when another human being is suffering.
“Seriously, Bard,” I grumble to myself. “You suck.” All I wanted was someone to tell me I’m not going insane like Grandma, that there are no men chained inside that room.
I stomp up to the main house and freeze. The back door to the kitchen is open.
I shine my flashlight into the dark space. I just passed by here two minutes ago, and that door was not open.
“Bard? Are you in there?”
Maybe he’s being a night owl and working on the driveway. He could’ve just come inside the main house to make a hot cup of coffee.