The House

Chapter 6 - Day 1: Tick-Tock

Chopped up chives, loads of cheese, some spicy sauces, beef-flavoured instant noodles and a beer. 

Dinner is served! 

I've never claimed to be a good cook, and I've never been accused of eating healthy. It's either this or ice cream, and I'm too hungry for just ice cream. I've only unpacked the items from the cool box because they require refrigeration, and the ice packs are not all that icy anymore. 

I'm extremely grateful that the refrigerator, though old, isn't dirty or smelly and, most importantly, is working! From my grocery bags and boxes, I grabbed the first things my hands landed on for my dinner. I'll unpack the rest when I'm not about to collapse and die of starvation and exhaustion.

I can't really see much outside anymore; the orchard has gone completely dark. It is officially night. Now that the worst of my hunger has been dealt with, I suddenly feel very self-conscious sitting in the kitchen with the light on. 

What if there really is a man out there? My only weapons are the mop I used to clean the foyer and the poker I used when I messed around with the fireplace...

"Enough already! If there were a man out there, he'd be dead from hypothermia by now! Shut up, eat your food, drink your beer and go to bed! You're tired!" Sometimes I can be very mean to myself, but I'm an obedient girl, so I shut up, eat my food and drink my beer.

All is quiet, too quiet. 

The grandfather clock is doing its deep, slow, muffled tick-tock. The nautical clock on the first-floor landing is a little louder, a little faster, just enough to be out of sync with the grandfather. Here in the kitchen, there is another clock ticking away to its own rhythm. Its tread is as light as the wood it was carved from. 

I didn't even notice its sound before.

It's a pretty little cuckoo clock hanging on the wall between the pantry and the locked door. Daintily carved ivy and reindeer surround a tiny door, and two chains bearing, what look like golden pinecones, hang from its bottom.

The owners of this house seem to have a thing for clocks. I'm grateful for that. If not for the tick-ings and tock-ings, I suppose it would've been eerily quiet now that the wind and the rain have dispersed. 

I almost miss Craig's obnoxious music, incessant chewing and seriously awful jokes.

Craig is not a bad guy. He is just going through a rough patch. A knee injury excluded him from the university's rugby team, leaving him depressed and without direction. We've been sharing a tiny apartment for about three years now, and though I often want to throw him out the window, I actually appreciate the company. 

Especially since the day, almost three months ago, when the love of my life decided that the scary girl selling feather earrings in the flea market was the love of his life and left me heartbroken and without an ounce of artistic inspiration to latch onto. 

Craig offered to go beat him up... I'm pretty sure he did it anyway, even though I'd declined the proposal.

"Jerk!"

Hank, not Craig. 

Me calling Hank a jerk is a sure sign of healing. The first couple of weeks I was unable to get out of bed, and for about two months following that, I've been unable to even think about Hank without launching into a stream of words that would make the most salted sailor blush. 

This was usually followed by a complete and total snot-and -tears melt-down. The meltdowns gradually became less spectacular, and today I can barely muster more than that lacklustre, snorted: "Jerk."

Yes, I am over Hank... I think...

After unpacking the rest of my groceries and washing the dishes, I switch off the kitchen light and turn to look out of the windows. It's too dark to see more than the silhouettes of some of the trees. There are too many shadows moving around out there to allow me to look for too long. 

Having a fertile imagination is great for art but it sucks when you're standing in the dark kitchen of a strange house, listening to three clocks ticking to their own heartbeats. Now that I can barely see my surroundings, my ears are trying to fill the void and are eagerly bringing each creek and groan to my attention. 

Thank you, ears!

I feel around the wall of the entrance to the hallway, where I know there'd been a light switch earlier. It seems to have gone AWOL. I try and try again, my fingers running up and down and back and forth along the cold wall. 

My nasty mind decides that now is a good time to remind me of a story where a girl tried to turn on the light in a dark room, and when her searching fingers found the light switch, she touched... fingers!

"Oh shut up, Lunabelle Emerson!"

I haven't even said anything, well, except for that, but I shut up anyway and abandoning the search for the elusive switch, I stretch my arms out, palms first and shuffle down the hallway. Why didn't I leave the foyer light on? Any light in the front rooms would have been good. 

Actually, I swear I did leave the foyer light on. Didn't I?

Speaking of lights, I could've easily just turned the kitchen light back on to help me find the switch to the corridor light...

"Shhhht, we're never going to speak of that again."

The passage spits me out into the foyer. Earlier, the foyer and living area had been bathed in a warm glow from the fireplace. It hadn't been this dark. The fire is dead. It's cold. All I can hear are the ticking sounds of the three clocks.

I start to cross to where I think the table next to the front door is located, the one on which my cell phone is still charging. I can remember that there is a lamp on the table. I'll go turn that on or use my phone for light. The idea of feeling the wall for switches again does not appeal to me at all. 

Coward!

Almost to my target, I'm grabbed by the ankle in a grip tight enough to trip me.

☼☼☼