The House

Chapter 52 - Day 6: Captive

"Belle! Stop! What's wrong?"

A scream lodges in my throat, choking me, when David wraps his arms around me from behind the moment I step out of the kitchen and into the backyard during my headlong flight from the house.

He'd either left his weapon behind in the sunroom or dropped it off in the kitchen because his hands are empty. His embrace is as firm, gentle, and comforting as it's always been, confusing my body into relaxing against him while my brain screams at me to fight him off and run away.

Where to?

I'm trapped in this place. This cosy little island that I was starting to love (when I don't hate it) with a man I already loved only a few minutes ago. 

What changed?

One vague, flickering woman with wounds on her face, bruises circling her neck and a caved-in skull who seemed to point accusingly at David. That is what changed.

What was she? A ghost? A house memory? One of those lost-in-time moments running on repeat where she's not that different from a hologram perpetually pointing in the same direction? A hallucination brought on by stress?

Besides, why would Iris wear a long, sombre black dress dating back at least a century or two? I don't know much about fashion, but it did not look like a lighter, more modern version of an old design... if she's into that kind of thing. Were they playing dress-up? Having a costume party?

David didn't seem to see her, and he is not suddenly trying to kill me; he is gently stroking my hair, whispering in my ear, asking me if I am alright. His voice is as warm and soothing as his hands, and, paired with his intoxicating fragrance, it is singing a sweet lullaby to my frayed nerves, calming them down and causing my heart to murmur happily in response.

David did not kill that woman, whoever she was. I know he didn't! Well... I'm pretty sure...

"I'm fine, thanks... The dust got to me; I needed some fresh air," I lie, turning in his arms to bury my face in his chest, breathing in his warm, soapy scent, revelling in the strength of his embrace. Everything inside me is vibrating with a repeating prayer, begging for me to be right about David not being able to murder anybody.

"Honey, you're trembling," he mutters, tightening his arms around me. "Are you cold? Did something scare you?"

"My nerves are chafed to the bone," I finally tell him about my biologically impossible dilemma and reluctantly pull out of his hug. He lets me go, sliding his hands along my arms and hands as they pass.

"I'm going to work in the garden for as long as the light lasts," he smiles, his eyes warm and comforting, gazing into mine, and guilt stabs at my heart. He has done nothing to deserve me, believing some random transparent woman without proof or confirmation. A woman who might be a figment of my imagination. David has only been kind, generous and tolerant with me since his arrival... and I didn't just imagine that.

I hate feeling this uncertain because I am so in love with this man!

"Wanna help me? Perhaps being outside in the fresh air will get your nerves to settle down again."

I am not against that idea. There is no way I'm going back to the solarium to work right now. That woman and the piece of chain linked to the wall freaked me out, and David is right; some fresh air and weak sunshine might be just what I need right now.

If I went back to the art studio and the woman (if there even was one) appeared again, she might point accusingly at the same spot, confirming that she did not mean David, but what if she didn't? What if she pointed out the window to where he worked in the garden? This is the kind of thing one wants to have confirmed as a misunderstanding but would rather not know if it were true. Even if not knowing could place you in danger. Knowing something that terrible is just impossible for me to handle right now. It is simply too awful to consider.