3 - Cold As Death

Morning brings forth a bleak prospect; cleaning up all the dust. But, thankfully, my gran's cleaning cupboard has been left alone, and I figure time will pass quickly if I get stuck in making the place liveable. One room at a time.

To keep myself from going insane with all the creaks and wails and other strangely anthropomorphic noises that come along with this old house, I decide to blast some music. Tune out the demons. Wait for mum to return victorious with some groceries.

Thus decided, I crawl out of bed, put in some earphones, and make my way downstairs.

In the crisp morning light that cuts across the hardwood floors in grids, dust specks flicker and shine like tiny floating diamonds. I have to admit, the place has potential when it's not trying so hard to be a nightmare.

My first task is to tackle the kitchen. After all, it's the room we'll use the most. Preparing meals, catching one another up on our days over some dinner, wallowing in self-pity at the breakfast table with a blanket wrapped around our shoulders like a cape because the heating still isn't working— you get the idea. Besides, call me picky, but I'd like the room where food is prepared to be clean as opposed to caked in layers upon layers of dust and grime.

I fetch out an assortment of cleaning supplies like a soldier choosing his weapons before trudging off to war. Except the battle is between me and the stubborn filth that has built up in the months between my gran's death and the will being read.

That's a cheerful thought process, and I squander it and succumb to the distraction of music.

Lost to my task, I hum along to the songs blasting in my ears and let time slip by. I scrub at the counter-tops, throw out all the outdated tins of questionable food lurking at the back of cupboards, and make a load of progress. The water is still freezing, and I think the boiler must be broken, but I get stuck in anyhow.

Outside, the day is shaping up to be another bleak one, but the sun is persistent and every time the grey clouds part, it shines stubbornly and casts the room in a pleasant glow. I can almost pretend it's actually warm in the house, but my skin prickles with goosebumps, and a chill has settled deep in my bones.

It's only when I've gone over the entire room and returned back to the counter-tops, giving them another round of cleaning hell as though I can burn off the grime if only I use enough friction, that I feel it.

A sudden, creeping, icy sensation on the back of my neck. Like a soft exhalation.

Now, I'm no expert, but I'm not sure there should be wind inside the house. And there should definitely not be breathing that isn't mine.

At once, my nerves are razor-sharp, and every shred of my focus hones in on the odd feeling. I go tense, my breath escaping in a rush that fogs up in the cool air. The space behind me goes negative, pressure flips on its head, and I know there's someone right behind me.

A cool hand grasps my arm—

—I whip round with a startled cry—

"—Jesus fucking Christ, mum!" I almost shriek, ripping out the earphones and glaring white-hot fury at my mother.

She looks just as startled, holding a brown paper bag filled with groceries. "I'm sorry!" she says, holding up her free hand in surrender. "I thought you heard me come in!"

"Obviously not!" I complain, sliding a hand down my face and resting back against the counter as I recover and will my heart to slow down before it gives out on me. It's thumping wildly in my ears, beating in symphony to the tinny music whispering from the discarded earphones. "Don't do that! You'll give me a heart attack!"

"Sorry," she says again, though her voice wavers with humour and she's fighting off a smile. Then, when I glare at her, she holds up the bag. "I brought a peace offering. Thank you for cleaning."

Together, we unpack the groceries, and mum tells me about her trip into town. I, meanwhile, silently seethe until my heart restores its usual, not-so-terrified rhythm.

"It's actually quite nice, you know," she tells me over her shoulder as she organises the fridge. "Quaint, in its own way. There's this lovely café I saw down by the river, and there's seats outside for when it's not raining. And a bakery— you know how much I love fresh bread."

She's trying hard to make this place a home for the both of us, and it's times like these where her unshakeable optimism throws me. Looking at the way she's settling, seeming so at home already as she packs food away and chatters about little cafés and bakeries, it's hard to imagine the nightmare we escaped from. The one she's been trapped in for years.

My mum is a strong woman. She went through hell and kept her heart. She's been holding us both afloat, and now I've got to do all I can to keep us from drowning. Even as the prospect of this new life threatens to pull me down into despair.

So I smile and I shove aside the bleak thoughts and say, "We should check it out sometime."

"I was thinking," she continues, changing the subject with surprising swiftness, clearly having been building up to something, "once you're ready, I can drop you off in town and head out to the hospital in Lindenbridge— see if they've got any vacancies. And you can have a look round, too."

So today is the day I venture out into Eden's Gate and find myself a job. My mum is, most definitely, giving me an excuse to check out the town, and trying to force me into seeing the positives of my new home.

Yep, still weird.

I know she's eager to get going, so I head upstairs to throw on some warmer clothes and tug my curls into some form of order. My room feels as uninviting as ever and, though the sheets are rumpled and messy, I've got no desire to jump beneath them. Maybe today will also be the day I invest in a hot water bottle to keep the frostbite at bay, because the boiler is a language I'm not exactly fluent in.

Ever one to be helpful, my mum drops me off right in the heart of Eden's Gate. The library is situated down a little lane too narrow for cars, and too cobbled for bikes, right on the edge of the river sweeping through town. The storefronts are jagged; some open, others boarded up and left to be forgotten. I get the startling impression of a gaping mouth with a few teeth missing, and a shiver of revulsion scuttles down my spine.

But my mum has already driven off, and I'm on my own. A wind stirs behind me, as though trying to push me down the lane. The people wandering all around me keep their eyes forward, each of them living their own separate lives and paying no heed to those around them. Lost to their mundane tasks.

Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and head down, I ignore the bustling townsfolk ignoring me and peer through my lashes to navigate to the library, feeling thoroughly out-of-place.

Grocers, butchers, charity, the café mum mentioned, the bakery, a run-down restaurant—

Library.

My safe haven.

I get a general sense of humbled cosiness from outside; the windows are a little grimy and obscure the outdated books on display. Fake ivy borders the shelves and little notices announce deals and discounts on memberships, and the welcome sign hangs lopsided on the door.

That, I think with a touch of amusement, isn't very welcoming.

But it's better than the alternative, which is wandering through these maze-like streets until I lose myself or get mugged, whichever happens first, so I dart inside. The bell attached to the door twinkles and announces my entrance, but the place is rather empty, and only a couple of people glance up halfheartedly.

I'm hit by a wave of comfort in the form of the old book smell— a delightful mixture of dust (not the unpleasant kind fermenting in Solus Estate), old memories, and a touch of vanilla. It's the Solus smell with a little class and decorum. The library is a maze of shelves and armchairs, and I hear the distant clacking of a keyboard and the low hum of conversation in the depths of the place.

One middle-aged lady with auburn hair and tension lines marring her features stands at the closest aisle of books, idly pondering, and she gives me a dirty, suspicious look, as though I'm a particularly disgruntled youth looking to cause mayhem in this haven.

I'm not entirely certain the look is warranted, given that all I've done is walk in. And I'm unsure how anyone could look at me and think troublemaker. The glasses are a buffer, and my frame is slight rather than stocky, with lightly toned muscle from my days at the gym back when I had a decent gym to visit rather than a brutish build.

I offer her a bright, slightly condescending smile. "Good morning," I greet pleasantly.

She blinks, startled. "Morning," she grumbles, turning back to the shelves.

What a lovely woman. Eden's Gate and its wonderful residents.

I set my shoulders and walk past her with an air of false confidence, and I find my way towards the help desk at the back of the library.

The man sat behind the counter, having just finished with a customer who bustles past me holding a pile of books, glances up as I approach. He's, to put it plainly, very old. His white hair is thinning and wrinkles pinch the corners of his eyes and lips, but he offers me a smile, and it's the warmest greeting I've gotten all day.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?"

Sir. I'm barely eighteen, but I appreciate his propriety.

"Hi," I return, glancing around to study the place. It's old and tired and worn, but well-loved, and I figure it's a good place to start. "I've just moved here, and I was wondering if you've got any vacancies."

He appraises me, tipping his chin up so he can look down his vaguely beaked nose at me. I adopt my most non-threatening, refined posture, but my gaze slides down to his desk and I see he's bookbinding — sewing signatures, with adhesive glue and a new cover lying ready and waiting — and all sense of professionalism flies out my brain.

"Is that a repair?" I ask, my voice rising with intrigue.

He smiles, following my gaze. "It is, indeed. 'The Mysterious Affair at Styles' by Agatha Christie— have you heard of it?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Studied it at school. Poirot, right?"

"That's right," he confirms, watching me with a clinical glint in his eyes, but his smile is warm and his tone inviting. "I've had this copy for almost four decades, and it needs a refresh. You say you've just moved here?"

I hum in assent, but his attention does not waver, so I elaborate, "The old Solus house."

Something in his expression goes cold; a flame doused behind his eyes. His smile falls, and I'm certain the atmosphere just dropped a few degrees into unpleasant territory. "Ah, it's a damn shame," he mutters solemnly, rubbing at his jaw with a shaking hand. "A right tragedy— this place has never been the same. Right in his prime, too, the poor lad."

Several things come to mind. One, he cannot possibly be talking about my gran. She was in her late eighties, not exactly in her prime, when she died, and she was most definitely not a lad— poor or otherwise.

Which means that, two, there's another tragedy he's on about in relation to Solus Estate. One I don't know about.

But, before I can ask or clarify anything, he rises from his seat and offers me a hand. "I'm Cliff."

"Theo," I say as I shake his hand, a little lost.

He smiles again, and this time, there's something off about it. Something unsettling. Something mask-like. "A pleasure to meet you. Come by tomorrow, and we'll talk shifts."

I blink, startled by his offer, but he shuffles off into the back room and leaves me to my hounding thoughts.

I leave the library with a job and a load of questions.

By then, I've gone a little cold — not entirely because of the weather, which is still bleak — and though I know my mum wants me to explore and meet new people, I can't quite manage the enthusiasm. So I walk back through the solemn streets and up the winding lane towards the old estate. My thoughts swirl, considering Cliff's odd behaviour and his cryptic words.

Poor lad. A damn shame.

As I reach the worn, tired gate, warm with exertion, I gaze up at the house. It seems to glare back at me, trying its best to look threatening even as the sun claws its way past the clouds and casts a speckled, rosy light across the sea of grass swaying idly in the cool breeze.

Surely, I try to convince myself, the attorney should've told us if there were any accidents that happened here. Legally or morally, at the very least.

I recall the shadow that passed across his features, yesterday, when he looked up at the house. His quick shift into dramatic enthusiasm as though to make up for it.

There's something off about this whole town, and it has something to do with Solus Estate.

So, I do what any rational person would do. I go inside, curl up on the sofa with a thick blanket and a book that I've dug out from the depths of my suitcase, and blatantly ignore the creeping sensation of doubt. As though, if I simply don't think about the possibility of someone dying here, it didn't happen.

Thankfully, I hear a familiar rumble before long, and my solitude cracks as mum practically skips inside.

"Theo, darling, guess what?" she calls from the hallway.

"What?" I play along.

Having located me in the maze, she bounds into the lounge and falls into the seat next to me. "I've got myself a job. First shift tonight."

"Tonight?" I echo, glancing at her over my book in slight horror. I can handle being in this place alone during the day, but the night is another matter entirely. Creepy things happen at night; as though they're let out of a cage when the sun goes down.

She at least has the decency to wince in sympathy. "They're understaffed. Practically shook my hand off. Are you cold? I'm freezing."

"It's this house. It's always cold. I think the boiler's broken, too."

"I'll look out for a plumber. How'd your trip into town go?"

I hum uncertainly, staring down at the book in a futile attempt to look busy. In reality, I've read the same sentence five times. "Alright, I guess. I've got to organise some shifts at the library, tomorrow."

"That's good, isn't it?" she asks carefully, picking up on my subtle deflections.

"It's good," I say with a shrug. And then, with a sigh, I put the book down. "Do you think the people here are a bit... off?"

"What do you mean?" There's something guarded about her voice, and her unshakeable optimism is fogged behind her eyes; a mere shadow of its former self.

It's unsettling.

"My new boss freaked out when I told him where I live. He said something about a... a poor lad. And that's cryptic as fuck. There was this woman who looked at me like I'd just kicked her puppy and all I did was walk in—"

I cut myself off, because my mum's expression has dropped from vague disappointment to crestfallen; a light rain to a howling storm.

And I know I've upset her.

"I know it's not ideal," she says in that heavy, fatigued voice I can't quite place between exhaustion from work or life itself. "But your father..."

My mum says 'your father' in the same way a person would remark on an unfortunate plane crash, or a fire. A tragedy.

Whenever she speaks about my dad, those rare occasions where the topic cannot be avoided at any cost (believe me, she would pay anything to keep him buried), it feels like stepping into a minefield and hearing a resounding, fatal click. It summons a cold feeling in my chest; it is simply knowing that any move will be my last, and even backing up is out of the question.

Any mention of him brings forth a tidal wave of echoes. Each more unpleasant than the last. Glasses smashing, voices raised, thuds of impact. Sirens, warnings, trips to the ER, long weekends at my mum's coworkers' houses.

In other words, it means a whole lot of discomfort.

"I know," I tell her before the conversation can fall any further into dark, dangerous territory. "And it's not so bad. Really. I'm just not used to it."

I offer her a smile, the brightest I can summon, and I channel every ounce of enthusiasm into the expression. I must be hopeful for the both of us, tonight. She's probably feeling the loss of my gran even harder being here in her house. My complaints aren't helping.

It works. She returns the smile and hugs me tightly. "My sunshine," she gushes. "Thank you, darling."

After that, we spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the lounge as best we can. It's a long and tedious process, but eventually we manage it. And then we set about making some dinner— trying our best to keep things mundane.

Too soon, she dons her bag and uniform and rushes off to work, leaving me alone with the creaking wails and screeching howls as the house settles.

I, by contrast, am feeling very unsettled.

The day has been a long one, and I'm about ready to drop. So, with the resolution of finishing my book in the morning, I turn off the lights, check the gate is closed and the front door is locked, and head up to my room.

The house is eerie enough during the day, but at night it becomes a special sort of monster. Now I'm alone, now the sun has abandoned me, I figure my room is the best place to be right now. Sleeping the horrors away.

As usual, there's a chill to the air.

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, hugging myself as though that alone will keep the shivers from scuttling up and down my nerves like little spiders.

As I fetch out my pyjamas and a thick jumper I'm wearing over them just to keep from freezing to death, I hope and pray and beg that mum will find a plumber who will be able to fix the boiler and heating system soon. I'm not sure how I can survive being this cold all the time, and I wonder if blood can freeze like ice in my veins.

I don't want to stress my mum out with all the issues I've got with the place and all the health and safety checks it most definitely would not pass even on a good day— not when she's shouldering fourteen-hour shifts to pay for the shell we're holed up in now. Perhaps, I muse, I could look at the boiler in the morning and hope solutions manifest themselves.

That, I remind myself, is wishful thinking. The place is ancient— the boiler is bound to be, too.

With that depressing thought, I settle beneath the sheets (these, too, are icy, and I prepare for a whole lot of shivering) and reach to turn off the lamp on my nightstand. My plan is to scroll through social media until sleep comes.

"Theo."

I startle, my gaze snapping to the corner of the room where I heard the hiss. Nestled between the creepy dresser and the crumbling-paint-coated wall, I'm certain I just heard my name.

Desperately, the logical part of my brain throws about words like house-settling noises and old pipes and faulty electrics.

But logic is quick to fly out the window.

"Absolutely fuck that," I blurt out.

I throw back the duvet and turn to bolt—

—only to come face-to-face with a boy.

An eternity stretches between one heartbeat and the next, and I feel as though reality is nothing more than a fraying thread. Nerves and synapses fire in a maelstrom of chaos, trying to pinpoint. Trying to rationalise.

Unsuccessfully.

There is a face up against mine where there should be nothing. I catch an impression of blue, of brown, of a pale, smudgy complexion.

My reaction is by no means courageous. By any stretch of the imagination.

I scream and scramble backwards until the bed disappears beneath me and I go tumbling off the edge—

An explosion of agony as the back of my head connects solidly with a satisfying thud on the corner of my nightstand.

Thoughts swim.

The instant between scrambling and landing hard on the floor, tangled in sheets, goes blank, like a frame missing in my head.

The last thing I see, as my vision goes blurry and dark, is a vague face looming over me.

Then everything goes quiet, and I fall a thousand miles into thick emptiness.