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As Fern pondered, they glanced uncomfortably out the bedroom window. The trees… hadn’t moved, of course. They were exactly where Fern had left them, which they felt absurd for even thinking about. Where else would they be?

But the discomfort from the dream wasn’t leaving, sticking with them as nightmares tended to, a second shadow following behind every thought. They’d been encouraged before not to give those things the time of day, in case acknowledging them made them more real, but…

Nobody was around to see them and judge them if they ritualized just a little to make themself feel better. It wasn’t like they really believed it had been a supernatural occurrence, but right after messing around with the mirror, it had felt supernatural. So maybe doing something in that area would help. They tried to think of folk stories they’d read and the things people did to ward off the evil eye or other horrors…

Iron was a big one, they remembered. Cold iron specifically, though Fern wasn’t sure what made iron cold rather than regular. Maybe it didn’t matter for their purposes, though—as long as it wasn’t an alloy or another metal, it’d probably be a good enough placebo. But finding iron was a harder thing in the modern era. Even nails tended to be steel; iron just rusted too damn fast.

So there wasn’t much around. The only thing they were sure was iron was the railway spike in the tree outside. 

Still, they could at least get some salt—also a ward, they were pretty sure—and grab something so they didn’t feel totally unarmed. But that could come after a shower.

Fern headed to the bathroom and made use of the facilities. It was a really, really nice bathroom: roomy, clean, with a frosted window that still let in sunlight. It had a clawfoot bathtubs, so that’d be nice to luxuriate in later. Right now, they just wanted the shower portion. The bathroom was all done up in black and white tiles, and a modern washer/dryer set stood in one corner. A towel and some packaged soaps had been left out for them, which made them feel a lot better about things. It really was just a normal place here, rented out by an attentive owner, not some weird horror movie cabin in the woods. 

Their shower done, they got dressed, grabbing their phone on the way out of the room. Before breakfast, they quickly photographed those weird Victorian photos to use for evidence, before putting them back again as they had been. In the kitchen, they poured themself a small cup of cereal, along with more of the milk that they’d used yesterday.

Ugh, the milk. Fern made a face to themself. What had they been thinking? They should go pick that up before it went off and stank up the entire basement. The beer, too, should go down the drain—it’d probably attract bugs. And then the bugs would attract spiders, and before they knew it, Fern would end up in a bug-spider spiral. No thanks.

They downed their cereal quickly, and, before they could really second guess themself again, poured some salt into their jean pockets. They headed down into the basement, then… hesitated, staring at the base of the mirror.

There was only one bowl there: the bowl of milk.

Had they actually set out two? They combed their memories frantically. They thought they had, but they were no longer sure. Certainly, they’d originally considered just milk, then knew they’d at least thought about beer—the White Gilgamesh conundrum—and felt like they remembered heading downstairs with a bowl in each hand. But… it wasn’t like they had evidence, and they’d obviously been really tired last night. Maybe next time they did something they needed proof of, they’d have to take a photo of it. Even so, it had to be their tiredness rewriting their memory.

Otherwise… that meant that something had actually taken the beer, bowl and all.

Which meant either that mirror ghosts were real—and if so why had Fern never seen any before??—or that someone else was secretly living in this cottage. A chill shuddered through them at the thought, the locked second room coming to mind, though they forcibly dismissed that thought. They’d have heard someone else in here by now if so, and there would have been more food in the kitchen when they arrived. This wasn’t a horror movie. Nobody was living in the walls.

…Nevertheless, it probably wouldn’t hurt to go armed, they decided. Nothing too violent, no knives—they didn’t want to risk carrying an unsheathed kitchen knife around all day, among other things. But a hammer and a screwdriver? Safe to carry, and useful in a pinch. Besides, if there was something they could pry up or screw down, they’d be prepared.

Fern grabbed those quickly from the storage unit, trying not to let their imagination get away with them as they shoved them into their front hoodie pocket. Then they hesitated, checking the nails and screws as well. They looked like they were steel, and the packaging said they were galvanized—zinc-coated. So probably not cold iron. They threw a single screw into a pocket regardless, just in case they were wrong.

It occurred to them that it wouldn’t need to be someone living here if they were instead able to get in, remembering their nightmarish image of a door in the cellar. Steeling themself, they checked that room as well, quickly—but the cellar layout was how they remembered from their first visit, and they didn’t see any other doors in it at a glance. Just a dream after all. Still a bit unnerved, they backed out after a quick scan.

They had to get out of here, if only for a little bit. And it was bright and sunny outside. A good time for a walk.

Fern took the bowl of milk upstairs and dumped it out in the sink, then filled their refillable bottle with water and grabbed a baggie that they filled with more cereal. They tossed both of these in their backpack, swinging that over a shoulder, and sent a quick text to Adrien—Hey, going for a walk, don’t call too early as I’ll be busy. I’ll text you when I’m back.—and could only hope it’d send in time to be useful in case they fell down a ravine or something.

The sunlight outside was immediately soothing, and they drew a deep breath of fresh country air, letting their shoulders relax. They began another quick perimeter check regardless, since they’d had those weird dreams about the scratching… but there weren’t any footprints or anything else unusual. The only thing that gave them pause was that staked pine tree—there was a wetness around the spike today that they didn’t think had been there yesterday, the sap pooling. Maybe the temperature change between night and morning had caused it to expand or contract? Poor thing.

From their spot next to that tree, they scanned the paths, trying to decide which way to walk: East, toward the road? North, technically parallel to the road—though it wasn’t visible from here—and toward the denser forest? South, also parallel to the unseen road, toward the fields that eventually would lead to the hour-away city? Or west, toward the river?

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The mirror was on Fern’s mind. Might as well spend some time demystifying it like they’d discussed. Hell, why not follow Bannick’s suggestions and really get into it—just to prove to themself how silly they’ve been?

Libations would be a fun idea. They were pretty traditional as offerings, and while Fern didn’t really want to pour anything out on the ground down there and then have to clean it up later, this place was fully stocked with bowls of various sizes.

They took down two little bowls and poured milk into one and beer into the other. They did think for a second about putting both in one bowl (what did they call that, the White Gilgamesh, and one of the worst drinks of all time?) but the idea almost made them gag, so separate bowls it was. Besides, this way, it’d be even better proof—if a spirit had their choice of offering, the aforementioned witchy folks out in their cottages couldn’t put the lack of paranormal behaviour down to “just not liking milk.”

Carrying them carefully, they headed down the basement stairs, nudging the light switch on with an elbow as they went. Everything was as they’d left it, which did make them feel a little better, if no less stupid about it.

Fern put the two bowls down in front of the mirror and then stared at its uncanny surface again. They did not like the experience. Again, it was hard to put their finger on the subtle ways it felt wrong, but it didn’t feel like themself staring back, an experience they’d had to struggle with for too many years to really love having it crop up again. 

Probably the only thing it was a portal to was dysphoria.

Bannick had suggested an incantation, which felt dumb as hell to do now that they were here standing in front of it, but they supposed there was nobody who could judge them. Fundamentally, it was like a writing exercise, right?

They cleared their throat and tried to imagine what kind of portal they’d want if such a thing were real. Where would they go? Somewhere just… not here, probably. They didn’t want to die, but there were times they wanted to just disappear and wake up in a better future, or something like that. Go somewhere otherworldly. Become a mystery themself: disappearing from a locked cottage, all their things left here, their shoes at the door, no sign they’d walked out. Even if this were that kind of portal, they didn’t think they’d do that to people they cared about.

Maybe better to try for an opposite: a way for someone who felt trapped the way Fern often did to come out and just live freely. They cleared their throat and tried to come up with some kind of recitation. Harder to do on the fly, without looking at a written script. But still…

“To those who are held away from the self they wish to be, for those who look to leave their circumstances but cannot find a way out that suits them, to those struggling against the self others want them to be, I leave this offering of milk and ale. Come and claim it, if you can.”

Not a terrible one, Fern decided, and pushed their hand against the glass.

It was slightly cool to the touch, but warmed rapidly under their palm. A wave of tiredness washed over them, nearly dizzying; it had been a long fucking day, and now they were digesting a heavy meal. Pasta was so good until about half an hour after you ate it, Fern thought.

They pulled their hand back; it felt sticky, sweaty. They shook their head to try to clear away the fog of exhaustion; while they were down here, there was more they wanted to get done. They could head to bed after that.

The cellar had kept popping into their mind since cooking. It’d be good to know what was in there if they did run low on groceries, or even wanted to supplement what they’d brought. Surely it wouldn’t have been left here if they weren’t allowed to use it, even if the door had been locked. 

They headed over, pushed the tapestry aside, and unlocked the door again, pushing it open and fumbling for the switch. The same rows of the root cellar greeted them as they headed in. Glancing at the jars, though, second thoughts began to claw through the sleep-haze that had washed over them. 

The jars looked interesting—canned okra, carrots, green beans, pickles, beets—but many of them were dusty, and, without knowing how old they were, Fern wasn’t sure how safe they’d be. If they’d been canned properly, they were theoretically edible indefinitely, though whether they’d be tasty after a while, that was another question. If they weren’t, the worst case scenario was poisoning. Botulism. All those dreadful things. It was a big risk, when Fern already had groceries. But surely the cans weren’t that old, if the building was still in use.

Why were there so many shelves? Had they always been here? Was it always this winding? Fern leaned heavily on a shelf for a second, then rounded a corner. The shelves were so narrow, Fern was beginning to feel like the ball in one of those tiltable mazes, rocked this way and that until eventually they’d find a hole and fall into it—

No hole, when they rounded another corner, but… another door at the end?

No. They felt a full body rejection of the idea, whiny and tired. It was too late in the day to deal with more doors, but not knowing was worse. They pushed off the shelf and went to the door, pulling it open. Only darkness seemed to be beyond, so they stuck an arm in, feeling around for a switch, and fell.

They were staring at the mirror. There was a man standing in it as if on the other side of the doorway, but he had no face, just a hole, a space, a gap where a face ought to be. It vanished into darkness that looked too deep for his skull. There was something wrong with him, similar to the way the mirror was warped. His body was wrong somehow, uncanny. Fern couldn’t put a finger on it, twisted limbs, maybe? A distortion? That lack of face, the lack of face, no face at all? The man stuck his faceless head and shoulders through the mirror toward Fern, beginning to push his way free. Fern couldn’t run, or move. The world felt slow. The man’s head tilted, hair showering down—what color was it? He laughed at Fern, not unkindly. It sounded like a susurration, a voice—

There were voices outside. Fern was in the living room, standing and listening to them, facing the window, not a mirror at all. A tree brushed against the window and Fern howled at it in outrage, leaning on the display unit to slam a hand into the glass in return and make it rattle. The tree and Fern batted at each other, the glass the only thing separating them, a sudden absurdity. BANG. BANG. BANG. The glass rotated horizontal— 

Fern looked up from the surface of the writing desk in the bedroom at the sound of something slamming into something else, hard. BANG. BANG. BANG. They pushed their chair back from the desk (BANG!) and peeked out into the hallway. The sound was coming from the locked second bedroom. Something was slamming hard into the other side of it, hammering on it like they were begging to be let out. The sign on the door was fluttering every time the person inside hit it. Fear gripped Fern and a scream bubbled up. They tried to keep it in, afraid that the sound of their voice would alert whoever was in there—

They stared out the window. Someone outside was screaming. It hurts, it hurts. Save me! A feeling like a dagger stabbed through Fern’s chest. They tried to grab at it, but their hand wasn’t being responsive. Instead they slowly doubled over. I’ll make it worth your while, the voice continued sweetly, as if it hadn’t just been screaming in pain.

Beneath the ground, a sound started up. Fern knelt to hear it. Not quite a pulse but something shifting. Fern ran their hands over the floorboards of the living room as if they could figure it out that way, and their hand brushed over a hoof. They looked up to see the faceless man standing there. Hell, Fern wanted answers; they opened their mouth, but the man shushed them at once, a finger in front of where a mouth should be. “No. He’ll hear you. Can’t you tell? He’s hungry.”

Fern could tell. There was a yawning hunger here. A mouth opening wide under them. Fern began to throw food in: canned jars from the cellar, their pasta, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what it wanted, it wasn’t what Fern wanted. It, they, needed more, more, more, always more. They yearned to be free, free, let them out, let them out, let them out—

***

Fern woke in bed with a jolt, struggling upright. Their mouth was dry and throat hoarse from screaming or snoring, and when they put a trembling hand on the pillow to help push themself up they realized that it was wet. Probably snoring, then.

They couldn’t remember exactly when they’d fallen asleep, whether they’d even entered the cellar last night or if that had been part of the dream. They vaguely remembered stumbling back up the stairs half asleep, just a fragment of oh, yeah, that happened that didn’t have any real detail associated with it.

It had been a weird dream, but just a dream, and not even the worst of the nightmares they’d had. No wonder, with all the weird shit in this house. As with most nightmares, they grimly did their best to dismiss it.

Fern sat up to get out of bed, then groaned, realizing that in their exhaustion they hadn’t even got undressed the night before. Their legs felt numb from where their jeans had twisted around them as they’d tossed and turned. 

Well, the first order of business was a shower, that was for sure. The second was… hmm, maybe to take a cell phone picture of those weird photographs for later, just to get it out of their head.

But after that… it was unusual to have a day so open, theirs to do whatever they wished with it, and nobody at all to expect anything of them, but frankly, they could do anything they wanted. 

Which just made it harder to figure out where to start.

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Well, it wasn’t like they had anything else to do while they finished eating, Fern decided. Normally they’d be all over researching those weird photographs, but… without internet, they didn’t think that was possible. They could take a cell phone photo of them to follow up on when they eventually left, but that was about it. Given how long sending a single line of text took, they couldn’t imagine sending a photo would be successful any sooner.

And honestly, even if it did work and they got an answer back in a day or two, they should probably be focusing on their writing. The photos might be a mystery, but their small podcast audience wanted things they’d at least vaguely heard of, not randos Fern had seen in photographs. Well, maybe they could add it as a fun bonus for subscribers. They weren’t usually involved in their own stories—their last episode had been about the Princes in the Tower, and it certainly wasn’t like they had anything to do with the Dionysian Mysteries, they just thought it’d be a fun tie-in with a video game release—but maybe some people would like the personal touch.

Whatever. No more delaying, or the radio host would move on. Refusing to think about it any further, Fern picked up their cell phone and dialed. They could have used the house line for this, of course—but that vague, overly-worried part of them didn’t want a number that might be traced to a specific physical location.

“Listeners! We have another caller.” No screener? Weird. Small radio station, probably. “Will you introduce yourself for us, Caller?”

Shit. They hadn’t planned on that, somehow. Scrambling, the only thing that popped into their head was an old episode of the Simpsons. “Guy,” they blurted. They managed to avoid adding Incognito after.

Bannick laughed. Fern became abruptly aware they were still hearing Bannick’s responses over the radio, not into the phone. Their own voice wasn’t out of sync, the way they expected it to be in case the call needed to be censored, but so perfectly aligned to not trip them up. Like they were having a conversation with the radio and not someone on the phone. Weird, but they imagined radio tech had changed somewhat since they were younger. 

“Well, Guy,” Bannick said, in a tone like he was in on the joke and welcoming Fern to share a laugh at the situation. “What did you want to talk about?”

They hadn’t thought at all about what to talk about, only what not to talk about, but they supposed they could let Bannick steer the conversation. Well, with one exception. “That previous caller. Are they your ex?”

“Aris? No, no,” Bannick said with another laugh. “We’ve never fucked.” Fern didn’t know they could say that on the radio, but with no screener to bleep it or delay to bleep it in, who could stop him? “Personally I think it’d be better if we did, but that generally should be a decision both parties agree to, and, oh, it’d really just ruin our social circle. But enough about Aris. Tell me about you, Guy.”

What felt safe? “I’m not really a local, so this is my first time catching the show,” Fern said. “I’m renting a cottage up here.” That wouldn’t surprise anyone; this was cottage country. “Weird little place. Lots of odd decor choices.”

“Anything particularly fun?”

They should avoid anything that would be too obvious from the outside—or maybe even to someone who might have rented the cottage before. No mention of the locked room, then, or the spiked tree outside that someone who visited could easily see. “There’s a weird mirror in the basement.” 

“A weird mirror?” Bannick’s voice sharpened with interest. He sounded almost hungry for a moment—it was a slow radio night, though, and Fern’s own podcasting experience had shown that little details were the thing people got caught up on. “Weirdly shaped?”

“Just… odd. It’s free standing but kind of busted. Wavy, so things don’t look quite right in them. Gives me the creeps,” Fern offered.

A laugh from Bannick again, almost too sharp. “Yeah, mirrors can be creepy. You know, some people think they’re portals into another world.”

Fern slowly spun spaghetti around their fork. “Don’t those people mostly say it like oooh, don’t let two mirrors, liiiiike, faaaaace each other or you’ll create a poooortal to heeeelllll?”

“Hah!” Bannick took a moment to recover from that impression. “Well, for people who believe that, the mirror’s already a doorway. The issue they have with making mirrors face each other is, I guess, that you’ve then created a tunnel. I’m not a fan of mirrors at all.”

“No?” Fern prompted.

The radio crackled for a moment. “Sorry, almost lost you,” Bannick said. “No, body issues, we all have ’em to some extent, right?”

Oof. “Right,” Fern said. “Anyway, I uncovered the mirror when I first got here, but I’m thinking of covering it back up. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“That’s one way of dealing with it,” Bannick said. “But you know what would be more fun? Go ahead and see if it is a portal. Put your hand on it. Recite some kind of incantation, I don’t know. I’m not going to suggest you slaughter a chicken—”

“All the chicken I have here is pre-slaughtered,” Fern said.

“Right, accessibility is but one of several notable issues with animal sacrifice,” Bannick rejoined immediately. Fern grinned a little; this guy was fun to talk with. Good banter, great sense of humor. Gorgeous voice, too, honey-smooth and inviting. “But I don’t know. Have some fun. Call back tomorrow to update us. Any weird ghost visitations after? Nightmares or visions? Or you can tell us blankly that nothing, of course, happened, and really disappoint all the witchy fans who like to come out to cottage country to get in touch with Mama Nature.”

Fern found themself laughing, an undignified little snort-choke. “Maybe,” they allowed, not committing to anything. “I’d probably feel better if I demystified it.”

“That’s the spirit. Anything else interesting around there?”

The urge to bring up the other oddities was very strong. “There are some odd photographs here. A Victorian woman and, I think, her father.”

Bannick paused for a long moment. “Is that so? That’s odd…”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Fern said. “They were hidden, but I might be a little bit of a snoop.”

“What a person snoops on in the cottage they are privately renting is their business, I always say,”  Bannick said lightly. “We’re running out of time, Guy. Any last messages or comments?”

Only one came to mind. “I appreciated what you said. About loneliness, I mean,” Fern admitted. “I came here to be far away from the press of humanity, but it’s so quiet. I was pretty glad to hear your show when I did.”

“It’s a good place to come if you want to leave humanity behind,” Bannick agreed. “Lousy for company, though. Glad to hear from you, Guy. I hope you let our worlds overlap again before you leave.”

Fern’s phone line went dead, and Bannick laughed again through the radio. “Wasn’t that fun, all? Another lonely light in the darkness. But it’s time to snuff out those little lights and head to bed. Let me play you out. Good night, good night, Bannick out.”

No station identifier—this was definitely not a commercial broadcast. There hadn’t been ads, either, come to think of it. The station went to music, but it was all Baroque tunes, nothing modern. Fern plugged their phone back in and ate their last bite of food.

They did the dishes still listening to that music—they thought about changing the channel again, but they were reluctant to get too involved with number stations; spy stuff freaked them out, because unlike most of history’s mysteries, spy stuff was too real and dangerous. Besides, they felt like they owed it to Bannick to keep listening for a little while.

But when the dishes were done, they clicked the radio off. They felt too-wired, nervous in a new place with pitch darkness outside all the windows now that the sun had set. They could just go to bed and try to sleep, or go work on their writing until they got too tired to stay up, but they wondered if there was anything else they might want to do instead…

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Fern kept the radio on as they turned the sauce to low, tossing the frozen veggies in and giving it a stir.

“C’mon, throw a guy a bone. I love a bone, love to gnaw it until it gives up that marrow. It gets lonely out here, you know?” the radio crooned.

They liked cooking, even if it was something they never remembered enjoying when they weren’t actually in the act of cooking. They liked food fine, but didn’t tend to experience hunger. It was hard for them to get three square meals a day; they ate lunch, usually, albeit at the wrong time, and dinner by rote but not particularly good rote, and they hated the concept of breakfast enough that they usually skipped it. Meals often seemed like a chore rather than part of the pleasure of living, something only as vital as—oh, as doing the dishes to keep them from rotting. They were trying to recreate a self who both took pleasure in eating like a treat, but it was still something they were consciously attending to. Actually planning it as part of their day was herculean.

“What’s this? We’ve got a call on the line. Now, who could be creeping into my parlour? If I had to guess—”

“Hello, Bannick.” This new voice was odd, accompanied by a rustling like the line was bad or the caller was taking the call from someplace strange. Their tone was fully androgynous, and the emphasis even on those two words was odd, putting a strong stress on Bannick—the host’s name, presumably.

Still, even if cooking was hard to get started, Fern deeply enjoyed the experience of creating something. Even better to get to enjoy it immediately. That certainly wasn’t something they got to experience in their part-time job of writing articles for a travel company, not with the six to eight months turnaround in publication. It was a bit faster a turnaround for their personal writing for the podcast exploring history’s mysteries, since that was really just based on how many episodes ahead they wanted to work.

“Aris.” Bannick said it Ah-riss, not Eris. “My personal little friend, my favorite little enemy. Thought it was you. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we? It’s always you.”

Fern had been intending to do both professional and personal work while they were out here.  Their scheduled travel article was on cottage country and had inspired this trip; the personal one had nothing to do with it, but they had a million articles downloaded to their laptop and a bunch of photocopies in a folder in their suitcase to work on their script for the Dionysian Mysteries episode. 

“Oh! Oh, is it always I? But I’m your friend, then, Bannick? How lovely, how droll,” Aris hummed. “Two peas in a pod, two pods on a vine, two vines in a garden, that’s us. Tiny, insignificant, but growing, regardless of oversight.”

“You could come over, you know, instead of just calling,” Bannick responded, laughing. “I think you know where I live.”

The pasta was boiling away nicely and the sauce was reducing; Fern began wandering the kitchen, pulling open drawers. One had various parchment paper and aluminum foil rolls, another had dishcloths, and the third was the junk drawer. This last seemed to be 90% pens by volume, but there were a few additional pads of paper, all designed to fit into the magnetized holder on the fridge, and several packages of batteries. They popped open the back of the flashlight to confirm that it took AAs, then grabbed one of those packages to carry with them. Just in case.

That reminded them that even if their phone was mostly charged, it was better to keep topped up in case of any outages. They hooked their charger up in the kitchen and plugged it in.

“I could not! You know that well, Bannick. I’ve no more freedom than a dog.”

“I’ve known some pretty free dogs, Aris.”

“That I’m sure you have. You’re much like a hound yourself.”

Nothing to do but wait for dinner. They grabbed the radio to bring with them, and wandered into the sitting room. The back wall had a display cabinet with various ceramic figurines, a ship in a bottle, and what looked like a music box; the central area had a low coffee table with several chairs facing it and the fireplace beyond. Said fireplace had the weird photos on the mantel they’d noticed earlier.

On closer inspection, the photos mostly looked like stock images printed out on photo paper, not even the images that came with frames. That was even stranger—it’d mean that someone had added them deliberately. The remainder… those were real, though who they were, Fern couldn’t guess. Maybe previous tenants, or the owner’s friends and family?

“Should I be taking that as compliment or insult, Aris?” Another low laugh there, the host clearly amused.

“One wouldn’t want to add insult to injury, and surely you have had injury done.”

Fern began unscrewing the back of one of the photo frames for the stock photos, tugging it out. Behind the photo was, in fact, another photo. This one was much older, yellowed, a young woman with curly hair under a bonnet, her eyes too wide and bright, wearing an outfit that Fern would guess as Victorian or Edwardian, though they weren’t too sure of the fashion differences between the eras.

A considering hum. “Haven’t we all, you, me, our listeners? It’s impossible to get out of this world without injury.”

“Are you out of this world, then, or within it?”

“I’m in it as much as you are.”

“Nor are you out of it,” Aris agreed.

What the hell was with these two? Fern wondered absently as they examined the photo, then carefully put it back the way it was before and began to open several others. They couldn’t tell if the host and the caller liked or hated each other. One way or another, Fern had clearly come in deep into some well-established comedy routine between the two of them.

The other stock photos hid similar secrets; there was another of the young woman, then one of her with an older man with equally intense eyes who appeared to be her father, though his hair was white and his mutton chops severe. She looked almost afraid of him. The ones that didn’t look like stock didn’t have anything behind them.

Absolutely bizarre choice on the part of the owner. Fern didn’t know what to make of it.

“I’m getting a bit tired of that particular line of thought,” Bannick was warning Aris. “Let’s talk sweeter things, dear. Anyone new in your life?”

“Is that a sweet thing to ask, or also tired? Nobody new yet,” Aris said, with a soft sigh. “One hopes, though. There’s a potential. A promise. Someone who might yet make steps with me. We can but dream, can’t we? Dreamers, aren’t we?”

Fern heard the beep of the timer they’d set for the pasta and returned to the kitchen to drain it and toss it in the sauce. Next to the stove, their phone finally buzzed; they picked it up to see a reply from Trev: Glad you’re safe. Keep me updated, bud. If you need to get outta there, lmk, I don’t want you stuck anywhere you don’t wanna be. I can probs come in a day or two to get you, then bring you back b4 they’d pick you up. Your folks don’t need to know shit.👍🏾

Not bothering to hide a grin, Fern slopped their food into a bowl. They’d been terrible lovers, but remained fantastic friends, where their little idiosyncrasies had resolved back into quirky traits instead of something to need to endure. Mostly, anyway. Nice to have the offer. Hopefully it wouldn’t have to come to that. 

“Oh, I’m no dreamer,” Bannick said. “But there’s someone I’ve got hopes for as well.”

“How lucky for you, beast.” 

It was clear that Aris had disconnected right after saying that—or that Bannick had cut them off. There was a moment of dead air before Bannick laughed again. “And that was Aris. Good ol’ Aris. Well, anyone else want to call in? Any calls at all? I don’t have anyone waiting.”

Fern took a few bites of food and let out a pleased sigh. It was good. Worth the effort. If only they could remember this even five minutes after eating it.

“Anyone? Give me a call, friends and neighbours. Sometimes it feels so lonely out here, you know? Like I’m calling out into the void but exist alone in my own private world. Maybe we’re all in our private worlds, hm? Last chance, give me a call, or we’ll go on to some sweet night melodies…”

It seemed to be their last chance to call in to tonight’s show—if they waited until they were done eating, they’d miss the opportunity. But maybe that would be fine. What would they even say if they did call in? The show seemed so weird, surreal and chatty, though maybe that had been the fault of the previous caller. If they let this chance  go by… at least there was supposed to be music after, not more weirdo number stations. Whatever secret codes were buried in those was deeply none of Fern’s business, or so they hoped. 

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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There wasn’t much more to keep Fern outside, though they spared a moment for a last safety check on a few things. They circled a little further to double check the furnace exhaust vent; the last thing they needed, under the circumstances, was to risk carbon monoxide poisoning. But the exit vent was clear.

Beyond that, they absently checked for trees with branches too close to the windows—they had enough nightmares that they would prefer to know the source of any unusual noises. But nothing was near any of the second-floor windows. The closest tree was the spiked pine, and that still didn’t touch the house itself. A few shrubs did come perilously close to the sitting room window, but that shouldn’t be audible from the bedroom.

So if there were any scratching on glass at night it’d be an actual horror movie scenario, Fern concluded with masochistic pleasure. Nice. 

Laughing softly at themself, they headed back indoors. There wasn’t much more to do outside, not in the late afternoon. They didn’t want to be one of those people who fell down an abandoned well, so no checking that unless there was a reason to; besides, glancing down it earlier hadn’t shown anything but darkness below. And actually removing that railway spike seemed like… well, perhaps it would be a kindness, but it might also harm the tree further after so much time of growing around it. Besides, that kind of thing might need proper tools.

There might be some of those in the basement, mind, maybe near the hammer. They considered going to get that after dinner to have next to their bed, in case they needed a weapon, but… It felt like they were over-preparing for trouble when they were supposed to be embracing a quiet and restorative stay in the woods. Besides, that’d send them past that mirror again, and while they didn’t intend to break it—property damage should probably at least have provocation they could point to when their family brought up the bill later—they didn’t love thinking about seeing it at night.

It was beginning to feel like they were putting off caring for themselves in favor of flights of paranoid fancy, which was enough of a historical trend that Fern was immediately annoyed at themself. They stomped inside. Imagine if Trev wrote back to just ask if they’d eaten dinner yet or if they were busy jumping at ghosts? They checked their phone. No reply.

Not like it was exactly a surprise—the signal would be bad in both directions, and Trev was already bad at answering texts in a timely fashion. It was one of Fern’s favorite things about him, because it had been so symbolic of what Fern had hated about dating him. A great excuse Fern could give themselves about the many reasons they’d broken up. Then again, they were fairly sure one of Trev’s personal reasons for the mutual breakup was how Fern always braced themselves for things to go wrong when everything was actually fine. It tended, Trev had pointed out before, to cause problems in itself.

So it was whatever. They could be normal about things. No more spiralling rabbit holes at least for the rest of the day, they decided; nothing would happen on this totally normal writing retreat and everything would be quiet and boring. No doomering. No preemptive worrying. No making extensive notes of what they’d seen so far to overanalyze it, because nothing had happened except them reading too much into locked rooms and cellars and mirrors.

They began rooting around in the kitchen, digging up some pots and pans—they looked clean but Fern washed them out regardless—and getting the water on to boil. It was a gas stove; they reminded themself to check that the burners were off when they finished and then reminded themself again immediately to still do that but be normal about it.

They pulled out the country sausage from the fridge and chopped it, tossing it into the pan; yeah, a nice sausage spaghetti with butter sauce would be just the thing for a special treat. They’d throw in some frozen spinach and edamame, which would probably make it officially healthy, even.

Opening the cupboard to grab the box of pasta also brought them face to face with the radio again. Sure, they decided, why not? It’d pass the time while the food boiled.

They knocked some pasta into the pot, then fiddled with the dials on the radio. They hadn’t really used one of these old radios before, but they were pretty sure what was happening wasn’t the expected experience. Most of the stations seemed only to give out static, and whenever they found one that wasn’t, it was a calmly robotic female voice reciting numbers: 02-20-17-18-04-03-02-20-17….

They were about to give up on it when their next click’s set of numbers was in a more human voice, low and masculine and smooth, with a flow between each numeral. Those numbers abruptly switched to actual speech after a moment:

“…1682. Listeners, it’d be so lovely to reach you on the airways. I can’t wait to get to know you. If you want some company out there in cottage country, look no further than your own radio. I’m sure we’ll make a real connection. Again, you can reach me now at—” and then a series of numbers that Fern realized was actually a phone number, ending, yes, in 1682.

It’d be pretty wild to call in, but they did have time to kill. On the other hand, maybe it was better to just let the program play out and listen to who else might chat with the host; it wasn’t like Fern knew what the show was about. They had other things they could do tonight instead, to be fair; perhaps they should just turn it off and figure out their after-dinner plans?

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern

BTW: Ftr! If/when Fern resists a suggestion, this is NOT me as the author
saying it’s a bad suggestion! Instead, it’s either a way to a. note that the
conditions for it haven’t been met or b. teach you more about Fern (and their conditions)
So feel free always to make suggestions that they might resist to get info that way!]

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