“You don't know if there's a builder around here do you?” she inquired, whilst attempting to blow some hair out of her eyes.
“Funny you should mention it but yeah, I’m a builder,” he laughed as he reached out a hand and fixed her hair. They shared another moment as he tucked a stray lock behind her ear and his finger brushed her cheek.
“Well. Then, perhaps, there is something you could do for me...besides taking me for a drink? Only if you’d want to that is?”
“I’d love to take you out,” he replied. His reaction filled with a kind of strong and confident eagerness that weakened Rose’s already wobbly legs. “Are you free now?” he added.
“Absolutely,” Rose responded, at once regretting how quickly she had accepted. She hoped that it didn’t seem desperate. “I suppose we could discuss the cottage,” she continued in an effort ‘cover her tracks’.
“The cottage?”
“Oh. I forgot to say. I need a builder to come and do some repairs to my chalet. It's a little run down,” Rose informed. She engaged her winning smile.
“Sure. Where is it?” Joe enquired; matching her smile in intensity and making her knees wobble once again.
“It's just a few miles up the road. It's called Darkfern Cottage,” Rose answered, trying to regain some of her composure. Joe’s beauty was disarming and she could feel her cheeks flushing red whenever he looked at her.
Joseph's smiled faded. His expression became mixture of disbelief and shock. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, like he expected her to say she was joking.
“Up at Old Nova's place? Are you being serious?” he said, doubt and worry collided in his tone.
“Yes. Nova was a relative of mine.”
“Why on earth would you want to stay there after what happened?” he blurted, his manner implying that the very idea was ludicrous.
“Why? What happened?” Rose asked. A deep foreboding swirled in her stomach as Joe’s face paled from recollection.
***
Harmony stood at the bottom of a very rickety staircase. She found the stairs behind a cleverly disguised door in the remains of the living room. The façade of the door had been constructed to appear as if it were a book case; the reason for which was beyond Harmony though she did think it was a crafty and practical use of space.
Harmony knew she would never have found the opening mechanism had it not been so obvious; the only book left on the bookcase was entitled Open Sesame after all.
One hand tentatively gripped the rotten banister which protruded from the wall. The aged rail was the only provision of support should she choose to ascend. What strength the banister did have was afforded by a few rusty nails crookedly hammered into the plaster.
She applied a little pressure, testing to see if it would give any kind of support should the stairs carry out their threat of collapsing. Harmony decided that the odds were not good. Nevertheless she advanced, intrigue urging her to investigate further.
The climb was slow. She placed her feet into the corner of each step; terrifying creeks issuing on every footfall as if the stairs were in pain.
Halfway up the potential death trap she began to regret her curiosity-driven decision. The stairs beneath her feet gave a shudder and she paused, fear gluing her trainers to the spot. Holding her breath she waited for a few agonising moments, anticipating the stairs to snap and close on her like a crocodile’s jaws. When this ultimately fatal event did not transpire she continued up with far more haste.
She reached the landing without further incident. Her sigh of relief was cut short as a shudder ran up her spine. The feeling that she had just been graced with a lucky escape flashed across her mind. Images of her body lying undiscovered under the collapsed stairs invaded her thoughts. Given the intensity of her imaginings she decided to remain upstairs until Rose returned lest her thoughts become her reality.
The upper level of the cottage, which had not been visible from the outside, consisted of a single, windowless corridor lit by a small oil lamp.
Harmony queried who had set fire to the wick? Given that the cottage had been empty for so long it seemed like an impossible thing. She thought that perhaps one of the miscreant vandals had ventured upstairs and, like her, was too afraid to go back down. She imagined the life of the trapped thief, doomed to live some kind of lonesome existence until a rescuer happened to pass.
Though, with a moment of reflection, she decided the likelihood of this was quite fanciful. She thought it far more probable to be a motion-activated trick lamp that gave off the appearance of a flame.
The light from the lamp barely illuminated the dark, wood-panelled walls that were littered with hundreds of dusty photo frames. The occupants of the photos were hardly visible through the gloom and grime.
Along the corridor three doors also shared wall space with the collection of snapshot memories. All of which, to Harmony's disappointment, had handles already. She started to walk slowly down the corridor checking the floorboards with her feet as she went; reason insisting she should expect them to be as dilapidated as the stairs. However, they appeared to be strong and sturdy, easily capable of handling her meagre weight. Regardless of how solid they acted she was careful all the same.
The damage, which had devoured the ground floor so entirely, did not extend to the upstairs. Perhaps the vandals hadn’t noticed the book’s blatant message that something lurked behind. There was no graffiti on the walls up here, just the dusty old pictures.
Harmony stopped to look at a large black and white photo that had become mottled and yellowed with age. It was of an old woman standing next to the oak tree in the garden. A small girl with long, blonde hair was smiling and waving from the swing.
Harmony looked at the old woman. She was smiling too, but there was sadness in her eyes and a strange look of familiarity in her face…
She turned away from the picture. The visage of an apparently happy time felt oddly painful to look at. An overwhelming sense of loss filled her insides as she moved away. Her mind felt foggy, like she was forgetting something important.
Harmony thought that it was pointless to try to remember something you have forgotten. To her it felt futile to try and force a mind to do anything other than what it wanted. Instead, she fixed her attention on the first of the three doors.
The door was painted with an elaborate mural of a beautiful, red-haired young woman and a handsome man. The couple were lovingly holding hands in a meadow filled with purple flowers. The woman was obviously meant to be Nova but the man was a mystery to her and he didn't appear to be in any of the photos; although admittedly she had only glanced at a few of them.
Harmony tried the handle and the door willingly creaked open. Inside was a small, undamaged, dusty (and positively medieval in design) bathroom. She quickly scanned the room then closed the door again. She felt disappointed that she still hadn't found a likely place for the golden handle. She turned the doorknob in her hand as she moved onto the middle door.
The painting covering the second door differed only slightly from the first. The woman was grey-haired and she stood alone, weeping next to a grave. Harmony felt uncomfortable, like she was intruding on someone else's memories. She wondered why her great aunt would want a constant reminder of such a macabre and horrible thing.
She tried this door also but it was locked, stuck or perhaps swollen-shut with the damp she mused. Or maybe the key she had dropped in the ambulance would fit the lock? She made a mental note to try out her theory when Rose returned.
Her frustration grew as the door refused to budge. She resisted the temptation to kick in the bottom panel and be done with it. Instead she sensibly moved to the third and final door and examined the painting this one held.
This mural was the strangest of all three. The woman was again crowned in flame-red hair. She was kneeling on the ground behind a huge, clockwork gate. In her hand she held a ring of keys. In the very dist
ant edge of the painting behind a patch of trees, barely visible unless you knew where to look, was a pale-faced girl in a purple dress.
Harmony stared at the picture. Shock electrified her skin and twisted at her stomach. How was this possible? How could her dream be painted on this door? Was it even her dream in the first place? Or, had she been in someone else's? Was this a dream now? Was she still passed out in the back of the ambulance? Her mind raced but, in reality, her eyes remained fixed on the painting.
The woman by the clockwork gate, dressed in her sickly, grey gown, stared back at Harmony from the door’s surface. Harmony felt like Nova was willing her to enter, urging her to venture further. Her hand moved slowly to the cold metal handle and turned. The lock clicked open.
CHAPTER 7
The setting of Nova
Dark clouds, aided by a howling wind, speedily rolled over the obsidian-black sky. The looming giants of vapour blocked out the moon and stars. From their shadowy underside they occasionally released a deluge of cold, wet rain.
As was to be expected the clouds had been nosily-watching the events of a disturbance unfold. The fracas had begun in a quaint, thatched cottage miles below their lofty vantage.
The tiny residence was tucked away in a dark, swaying forest that looked not unlike a sea of ferociously-turbulent waves.
The sky dwellers had been drifting overhead when the first signs of a story were spotted. They listened to the crashes and raised voices from within the tiny dwelling. Unsurprisingly the ruckus quickly apprehended their interest and they were soon chatting amongst themselves (as clouds do when enticed by a gripping tale) about the possible repercussions of what had been said.
Then, all of a sudden, the screaming started...
Blood curdling cries ripped through the darkness and alerted all who could hear that something terrible was taking place. The argument had escalated into something far more deadly than first appeared. The screams were the kind of soul-churning wails that they had heard before, and did not wish to hear again. This type of cry always foreshadowed wicked events. Murder had stained the night sanguine.
The clouds were now making a quick getaway; hastily retreating to the nearby settlement of Bellflower. Though their actions appeared to be seasoned with cowardice, their true intentions were honourable. By hook or by crook they would get help for the screaming woman; though how this would be accomplished was, for the moment, beyond them.
To their relief, as they approached the village, a small wisp of wind whistled past them. He was carrying one of the terrifying-screams in his arms.
They waved and cheered him on as he dove toward the lamp-lit street. The mountains of moisture congratulated each other on a job well done (not that they actually did anything) and with the panic over they slowed down to see the next part of the story unfold.
The wisp paid no heed to the clouds; he made a habit of avoiding beings with an over-inflated ego (clouds definitely fell into this category).
Wisps are made of wind; as such they are free to gale across the world. Their existence takes many forms; from a gentle breeze in a sun-drenched valley to a sail-ripping storm. Every gust, gale or draft was a listening wisp.
A wisp has only one duty to fulfil on his free-flowing pilgrimage; a cherished and sacred task undertaken by all. They carry the calls of The Universe and transport them to wherever that sound must be heard. This night was no exception and the cry he carried was important...it had purpose beyond the norm.
He was transfixed with his mission to find a soul who would listen to what he had heard. The scream struggled in his grip but he held fast. He was almost there…
Below him he spied a man emerging from a green van. He dove toward the gent’s unprotected ear and dropped the cry, like a plane unleashes a bomb. The wisp released the scream and flew on. As he cleared the scene he glanced back over his shoulder to see the payload land.
Joseph King had just locked his van door when a cold gust of wind hit him in the side of his head. He was about to curse the weather they were having when he heard a woman's scream echo down the street.
He looked around for the source of the noise and panic filled his chest. It wasn't a nice scream, the kind you hear when someone is having fun. This was the scared kind. It was one of those blood-curdling sounds, the kind that rooted you to the spot and made your blood run cold.
Joseph walked quickly towards the top of the street. His mounting panic, now felt as a lump in his throat, increased as the shrieks continued. The tear-jerking cries ripped through the night, like nails down a chalkboard. He looked in the direction they were coming from trying to see into the blackness of the forest.
He felt someone beside him, a hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see Martha Trotter, a large lady who ran the local pub, standing next to him. She wore her waxed-jacket over a pink dressing gown.
“What's going on Joe? What’s out there?” she asked, fear causing her voice to quake.
“I not certain what it is, but I think it's coming from Nova's place,” he replied with a similar tremble.
They looked into each other’s eyes and an unspoken conversation took place. The exchange was short and urgent. Joe looked at Martha and then at the forest. Martha looked at Joe and nodded towards her car which was already pointing in the right direction. Joe nodded and the decision was made.
“You got a gun?” she questioned.
“No! Of course I don't have a gun! I'm a builder, Martha,” Joe replied. He was more than a little shocked. “What would I need a gun for?” he continued as another scream filled the air.
“Well...for a situation like this,” Martha retorted. She turned toward her house and shouted at the dishevelled boy in the doorway. “Marshal! Go and tell Sergeant Cooper we need him at Nova's house!”
He ran off barefooted down the street without saying anything in reply. Martha quickly moved to her car.
“Come on, Joe. I’m not going there on my own.”
Her words urged him to pick up the pace and join her. He ran to the car and jumped in the passenger seat. Moments later the car sped off towards Darkfern Cottage.
***
Rose sat in Joe's kitchen listening, transfixed in horror, as he recalled the story. She was shaking from head to toe. She didn’t cope well with scary stories as it was, especially when they involved blood-curdling screams.
“Then what happened?” she gasped. She trembled and her teacup rattled in its saucer.
“Are you sure you want me to continue? It's not very nice. I mean... The next bit is pretty strange. I don’t want to upset you.”
He looked concerned as he said this, his eyes giving away that he didn't really want to remember what had happened.
“Please, I need to know what happened at the cottage,” Rose said. She took his hand to offer support and looked him in the eye. “Please, Joe. Tell me what happened next.”
***
Harmony opened the door and entered the room. Though quite small and dusty the bedroom had a nice, comfortable feel. Old, faded rugs covered most of the floor and a pair of threadbare curtains framed a filthy window. The view looked out over the back garden and into the forest beyond.
She calculated that she was over the kitchen. Though, admittedly, the layout of the cottage was confusing to say the least. The fact that there was an entire second floor, concealed from view, was enough to make her head hurt when she thought about it.
The sun’s shine was muted by the grimy glass; the glare dispersed into a warm, cosy glow that illuminated the chamber just enough to see. Against the far wall was an ancient, wrought iron bed which looked like it belonged in a museum.
A long mirror, mounted to the wall in a wooden frame, sat next to the bed. Its silvery surface reflected a mottled version of Harmony. Her clothes looked filthy and her hair was a mess. She made a mental note to clean the bathroom first when Rose got back with supplies.
Ha
rmony allowed her gaze to drift around, taking in the atmosphere and decor. Apart from the severe lack of dusting the room looked to be in good order.
A wooden wardrobe, oversized and ornately carved, stood next to the doorway. Harmony stood in front of it and opened the two doors.
Inside she found a few old dresses, hanging like sad remnants from a time gone by. Fragile and decayed with age they looked more like rags than the once quite elegant garments that they claimed to be. She moved them aside carefully and examined the back panel.
She pushed gently in the hopes it too would reveal a secret compartment. In an ideal world the closet would have contained answers about the mysterious house, or better yet it could have led to another world (lamp-posts and fawns optional).
When the wardrobe proved to be nothing special she giggled softly to herself. The laughter was tinged with disappointment. This room was just another dead end.
Harmony closed the closet doors and walked over to the bed. She sat down heavily, the springs moaned. She sighed sulkily; her frustration disturbing the clouds of dust revealed by the sunlight.
She looked at the doorknob in her hand and then scanned the rest of the room. There was nothing in the house that lacked a handle. It felt like she had searched everywhere. All that effort and no reward was most unsatisfactory. It didn’t seem fair.
“Nothing...nothing at all,” she grumbled out loud to the assembled furniture. She turned the object of her defeat over in her palm. Harmony threw the handle into the air and readied her hands to catch.
Her eyes followed the golden doorknob as it sailed upwards and turned, hanging for an oddly-long moment at the summit. The words written on it caught her eye and she whispered, "Latro Gradus.”
It dropped quickly. The shiny, metal surface passed through a sunbeam on its descent. A resultant flash of light blinded her for a moment. The handle made contact with her outstretched hand and then immediately bounced out.
CRASH!!!
The doorknob crashed against the mirror. Harmony instinctively covered her ears and scrunched up her eyes as the sound of shattering glass filled the room.