Entering the foyer, I'm greeted by a similar spectacle of trees being abused outside the wall of windows running the breadth of the front of the house, from the wall with the stairs to the end of the living area. The front door and open curtains are the only breaks in the view.
It is beautiful and unsettling. These trees were not planted in rows like the ones at the back of the house. It is a small forest skirting the sides of the winding driveway I'd navigated to reach the house. Huge trees, strong and old, fighting back against the power of the wind.
There's still no person visible among them. Nobody in their right mind would want to be out there.
Well, stalkers and rapists and violent criminals generally didn't fall into the right-minded category. I don't think I'm interesting enough to inspire stalking, though. But then again, I have no idea how criminal minds work. Victims don't have to do anything to become victims; they don't even have to be interesting.
Perhaps I should close the thick drapes?
The wind is going crazy, but the rain seems to have died down a little bit. The lightning flashes are further apart, and there are only distant rumbles of thunder. The storm may be passing. I might not starve after all.
There's a neat stack of firewood next to the fireplace. It seems that Ron has done a few things as the caretaker. He should really take a look at the garden and that utility room too. I didn't notice the firewood before, but then I didn't notice much of anything earlier, as freaked out as I was.
I know how to build a fire and light it, and I do so with the implements considerately provided for that purpose.
"Thank you, Ron."
Watching the flames licking at the wood, first tentatively and then with more conviction, I suddenly worry that the chimney might not be working and that the room will soon be filled with thick smoke.
"Now, that will be awesome..."
I wait. I try to peek up the chimney (there's only darkness up there) and wait some more. Nothing seems to go wrong. Ron probably wouldn't have left the wood and lighter if the chimney wasn't working. Ron was not Craig.
Craig!
My suitcase and backpack are lying open and ravaged on the scattered rugs not too far inside the front door. Evidence of my desperation for a bath and clean, dry clothing. I vaguely remember tossing my phone into the suitcase during my frenzied attack.
Kneeling on a scuffed rug, I re-organise the suitcase and find my phone. Two bars signal and about 12% battery life. Remarkably, there are messages from Craig. Six images. It was quite a long letter, then.
"Thanks," I reply to his last message, making a mental note to strangle my cousin later.
It is not easy to read the words in the blurry images. Of course, Craig didn't go to the trouble of taking decent pictures. That would just be too efficient! I can make out some of it, though, even between the relish and mayo smudges.
Dear Miss Lunabelle Emerson
Seeing my name written in full never ceases to mystify me. What were my parents thinking? I only learned that my name wasn't just Belle when I started my first day of school. I've been vowing to change it ever since.
I shall... one day... I swear.
Thank you for leasing La Belle Pêche for the month of October 2019. We hope that your stay is going to be pleasant.
Bla bla bla... and more along that line.
Arrival: Monday, 30 September 2019
YOU ARE READING
The House
Mystery / ThrillerBelle, an art student in need of a place to work on the paintings for her evaluation, makes the mistake of leaving it to her bungling cousin Craig to find that place for her. And find her a place, he did... "Craig! You said this house was, and I quo...
