[ Please read the instructions before commenting! ] 

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…

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

◀ previous | index | next ▶

[ Please read the instructions before commenting! ] 

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]

◀ previous | index | next ▶

[ Please read the instructions before commenting! ] 

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!]

◀ previous | index | next ▶

[ Please read the instructions before commenting! ] 

There was enough that still made them uneasy about the basement that they might as well resolve before leaving, Fern decided.

That flashlight, for one, should go with them; if they did get caught out late, they’d want it, rather than draining their phone’s battery. They headed back to the shelving, grabbing it, testing it—nice and bright—before shoving that as well in one of their deep pockets. Also in the bin were a hammer and screwdriver, which they certainly didn’t need to be hauling around, and, surprisingly, a set of spare keys. That they pocketed, too; they probably didn’t need to be too nosy, but subtlety beat destruction of property if they did end up nosing around.

The fuse box had the old-fashioned screw-in fuses rather than breakers, so it had been hard to tell which had power. They briefly considered unplugging a bunch of them to check, but there didn’t seem to be much point. If a room or appliance didn’t have power, they could always come down here and replace those later.

The last two weirdnesses were the dust cloth on the mirror and the oddly-placed tapestry, neither of which had exactly given Fern a good feeling. Better to check those now than give themself anxiety nightmares later. They could always put back anything they’d moved before they left in a couple weeks.

The first thing they did was pull the dust cloth off the mirror. Sure enough, it was a standing, full-length mirror, but they immediately saw why this of all things would get covered. There was something wrong with the glass in some subtle way; as the cloth came free, the hair stood up on their arms and they couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. It looked like it had warped slightly; not exactly a fun-house mirror, but just enough that they looked distorted in it, like it was a pond with a faint ripple. Still, only a mirror, if an ugly one. They left the dust cloth draped over the chair and checked under the carpet—nothing of interest—before moving over to the tapestry.

Behind that was a door.

For a long moment, they just stared at it, feeling something between Why didn’t I expect this and This is how a horror movie starts. It was locked, at least; they gave it a jiggle and felt momentary relief that nothing would easily be getting in or out.

But why was there a door here? The basement was the size of the whole cottage above, so that was… strange. It was far away from any neighbouring houses, but maybe a long time ago there had been another one and they’d joined with an underground tunnel, Fern supposed. Or perhaps it was some kind of escape tunnel from a long time ago, just in case—what, if a tornado came and the original owners would need another way out of the basement?

The only way to answer their too-many questions was to open it. With hands that only shook slightly, Fern tried different keys on the spare key set—already a discovery they were glad they’d made—until one clicked. Moving a bit too slowly, too cautiously, they swung it open.

They almost went weak-kneed with relieved foolishness as they saw the rows of wooden shelving and somewhat dusty jars in there. A root cellar, dug out separately so it could be cooled to do its job properly while keeping the basement insulated.

Nothing to worry about after all. Fern locked the cellar back up and headed upstairs again, still embarrassed at letting their imagination and fears get away from them. Always the problem, wasn’t it? If they didn’t have such a wild imagination they probably wouldn’t even be here.

Better to feel silly than have unwelcome surprises they didn’t check for, they reminded themself, tugging their shoes on and heading out into the woods. A glance at their phone showed that at some point, the text had sent, though they hadn’t yet received a reply.

They’d just do a quick perimeter check and then eat dinner. Maybe they’d make themself a pasta, they thought. Do something with the sausage in the fridge. 

It was crisp outside, bright and cool without being biting, so that Fern didn’t need to go back in for a heavier jacket. The wind rustled through the leaves, but the background silence behind it was strangely uncanny, the lack of traffic nearby almost shocking. They were too used to cities, and wondered how normal sounds like this had seemed to their ancestors.

The front of the cottage was nicely kept, with a gravel driveway that gave way into the dirt path Adrian had driven them down, and no garage. The flagstone path led from the driveway over to the front door, and bushes crowded underneath the living room window.

Around one side, they could see where the furnace let out. Several paths lead out into the woods, which they ignored, continuing to circle the house instead, leaves crunching underfoot. Near the back of the house was an odd tree: a half-dead pine with a crack along it; when they drew closer, they saw that someone had, a long time ago, buried a railway spike into the wood. The tree itself had done its best to grow around it, absorbing it into the wood, but it had done damage that had scarred regardless.

Fern had to wonder how that had happened. Was it meant to discourage logging too near the cottage? Or perhaps something long since removed had once hung from that spike.

They dismissed it, continuing their walk. There were several bushes at the back, and again, more paths vanishing into the woods. Then, not far from the other side of the house, an old well. They didn’t have any coins, but they picked up a pebble and tossed it inside, hearing no splash. Perhaps it had gone dry.

Nothing else of interest turned up as they reached the front of the house again, but it felt good to have a sense of what was—or wasn’t—around.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

◀ previous | index | next ▶

[ Please read the instructions before commenting! ] 

Fern’s thoughts strayed briefly to that locked storage door—and dismissed it. Breaking a lock to check out someone’s private storage might come with fees involved. They weren’t sure if it had been specifically mentioned in the listing or not, either. It’d be hard to justify their curiosity if asked.

No, the most practical thing would be to check on that theoretical fuse box, spiders—they shuddered—or not. Then they could go for a walk around, get a sense of what the land was like to keep from getting lost if they had to go out there.

Not that it sounded so bad, getting lost out there. They kept almost wondering if that was part of why their parents had suggested this outing, to give Fern a chance to just disappear if they wanted to. To run off and live like a wild thing in the woods. Fern pushed that thought away as soon as it bubbled up again—that was cruel, and even if it was clear that their family didn’t know how to handle them for the last few years, nobody wanted them gone.

Losing someone was hard. Living forward after it, wondering how much of it had been your fault, that was harder. Fern wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially their own family. The immediate aftermath had been bad enough.

The longer term psychological repercussions, those were somehow worse. The long nights. The nightmares. The constant background imagined whispering that they’d never heard before but that they couldn’t seem to tune out anymore. Manifestations of guilt, someone had called it, and Fern had liked that term, manifestations. It had felt like that, like something that Fern had previously been unaware of had suddenly started to manifest whenever they were around people. 

It was quieter out here in the woods, though. They’d thought it would be; the fewer people were around, the less noisy it tended to be, their sandpaper-skin awareness of every person nearby now faded with nobody around at all.

Maybe two weeks out here would actually reset them to the person they were before all this. A laughable thought. That person didn’t exist any more. Fern had been trying to recreate themselves as someone they liked again. Some steps forward, maybe.

Ugh. They were getting philosophical. They stood, jamming their phone into a pocket and clapping their hands a few times sharply until the sting grounded them back in their own body and out of the morbid spiralling thoughts. Fuse box, right. Better to check for it in case of problems, since getting anyone out here over a fuse blowing would be a real nuisance.

The door at the foot of the stairs had no lock; Fern opened it and discovered, instead of a small room with an embedded fuse box as they expected, stairs going downward into darkness.

This place just seemed to keep getting bigger and bigger than the listing had implied, but the theoretical fuse box was down in the basement instead. Thinking wistfully of doing anything but this, Fern found the basement stair lights, then headed down.

The stairs let out into a single big room. The walls were finished in wood; an odd tapestry hung next to the furnace on the wall to the right, depicting a maiden tangling with a unicorn that had impaled her through her chest. The wall facing the stairs had a bunch of sitting room furniture against it—two old armchairs facing a round table. A matching round carpet was laid out on the cement floor under the table. Not exactly where Fern would hang out with guests to chat, but they supposed someone was into it. Next to that was what looked to probably be a freestanding mirror, though it was covered with a dust cloth.

The wall to the left had a bunch of shelving with paint, cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper and paper towels, and so on, and next to that was the fuse box. There was a stack of spare fuses on the shelving next to the box. The fuse box itself, when opened, did indeed reveal a few spiders in its corners—damn—but all the fuses were clearly labelled.

Including one, they noted, for “2nd Bedroom.” Interesting implications for the locked room, especially since there was so much room down here for storage. But they couldn’t fault the owner for keeping a bedroom for themselves to stay in that guests wouldn’t have access to, and keeping their personal belongings in there.

There were plenty of small boxes on the shelving as well, clearly containing various useful things—they caught sight of a flashlight sticking out of one. Good to know where to find one if they needed it. They wandered the length of the room instead, feeling weirdly uncomfortable about the draped mirror. It was the dust cloth making them feel that way, they decided. Something about it being covered felt like a shrouded corpse, even if it was just to keep the glass clean.

The furnace had been serviced recently enough, and beyond that, Fern didn’t know enough about furnaces to form any opinion. No laundry down here; that might be in the bathroom, or perhaps somewhere else Fern hadn’t looked yet. 

There didn’t seem like much else to do down here, they supposed. They could head out to the grounds as they’d originally been thinking, but tried to decide if there was anything from here they might want to take with them—or if that was even still a good idea to do in the afternoon. They should still have a few hours of sunlight, though.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

◀ previous | index | next ▶