Chapter 7

"Ari, darling, are you awake?"

My eyes flutter open at the sound of Carver's voice. I groan softly, my body revolting after another night of deep slumber. I should be feeling better with all the sleep I'm getting, but my nights are long and fraught with nightmares.

They're not as bad as the days though.

"Ari?" His tone is sharper now, impatient.

I nod in response to his question, trying to focus on his words as he informs me about his next trip to London. I watch as he talks about his duties, his angular features partially hidden in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

I always feel a mix of relief and unease when he returns to London, leaving me under the supervision of the groundsman. There are no other staff here besides Mr Danvers, although Carver must have someone to stock the pantry and clean – but I've never seen them. It's always uncomfortable having strangers around, especially when I can't stay grounded, but Carver seems to trust Mr Danvers.

Nodding again, I assure Carver that I'll be good and behave for the groundskeeper. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to my forehead, making me shudder, before leaving the room.

As the door clicks shut behind him, I sink back into the pillows, pulling the covers tighter around me. There's a sudden chill in the air despite the warmth of the room and the lingering scent of Carver's cologne clings to everything.

Closing my eyes, I try to shake off the sense of unease that lingers at the edge of my consciousness. The groundsman will be here soon, and while he's taken care of me a few times on Carver's previous trips back to the city, we've never actually spoken.

I wonder what type of person he is? Is he lonely, living out here all alone? Had he known Carver as a child? Had he ever met my mother? She'd been here a few times over the years. Where was his cottage? I knew it was on the edge of the property, but I hadn't seen it. Was it tucked away inside the forestry?

I push my unusually noisy thoughts away, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of my breathing as I drift back to sleep.

When I wake, there's a soft knock on the door. The groundskeeper.

The old door creaks as it swings open slowly, the hinges crying in protest. With soft steps, he enters my room and stands at the foot of my bed.

I can barely make out his features, just the outline of a tall, looming figure that seems to blend into the darkness of the room.

My stomach tightens as I remember Carver's warnings about staying in bed and resting. His stern commands to take my medication from this man who now watches me silently.

I clear my throat, trying to dispel the heavy silence that hangs between us.

"Hello," I manage to say, swallowing past the lump of fear in my throat.

The groundskeeper doesn't respond, only nods curtly in acknowledgment. His presence feels oppressive, suffocating almost, like I'm under surveillance as he looms over me.

I shift away under the covers, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am trapped alone in this house with a stranger without another soul for miles.

The groundsman takes a step closer, his movements deliberate, like a hunter trying not to startle its prey. My heart races in my chest, a feeling of panic rising up my throat.

My hand trembles as I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand and take a sip to calm my nerves. But when I lower the glass, the groundsman is right beside me, so close that I can smell the earthy scent of soil and sweat that shrouds him.

I freeze, every muscle in my body tense as he leans down, barely glancing my way.

"Medicine," he grunts, thrusting the two pills towards me.

"T-thank you," I stammer, reaching to take them from him.

He doesn't wait for me to swallow them, once he's handed them over, he turns on his heel and walks from the room without a glance backwards, closing the door behind him.

Once his footsteps fade, the soft echoes swallowed by the silence, I exhale shakily. The pills feel cool and smooth against my skin, a stark contrast to the prickling heat of fear that courses through me. I was alone. Trapped.

I glance down at my palm, hesitating. He didn't make me take them. Didn't watch. Carver always watches, always makes sure I take every last thing he gives me.

Maybe he wasn't told to supervise me? Maybe he only left instructions to give me the medicine. Carver likely thinks I'm so complicit at this point that he doesn't need to. Or maybe it's a test…

Could Carver or the groundsman be watching me?

The thought makes me tremble as I try to covertly check my room for a hidden camera or something out of place. Maybe the groundskeeper will come back. Maybe I should take the pills. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

With hesitant steps, I make my way over to the window, careful not to make a sound that might draw unwanted attention. Peeking through a small gap in the curtains, I catch a glimpse of the groundsman walking across the expansive grounds before disappearing into one of the garden sheds.

My head aches as panic threatens to engulf me whole. Maybe I've finally gone crazy. Consumed by paranoia. The new pill is making me worse, I know it despite what Carver says. The tablets make me sleepy.

I don't want to sleep anymore…

I lose days.

I can't think.

I forget who I am.

I forget her…

I hate them.

Decision made, I grip the pills tightly in my hand, the press against my palm making little indents in my skin. With a newfound sense of determination, I cross to the nearby potted plant and push the tablets into the dark soil, pushing down, down, down, until they both disappear from view.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A surge of adrenaline courses through me, my heart pounding against my rib cage in a way that's almost painful. If this was a test, Carver was going to punish me for failing, but I'm not a puppet on a string here for his entertainment.

As I climb back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, a sense of defiance blooms within me like a fragile flower pushing through the cracks in concrete. I close my eyes, my mind racing with the possibilities of what might come next.

The thoughts overwhelm me, and I begin to drift off into a fitful sleep, but a sudden noise startles me awake. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, echo through the hallway outside my room. My heart leaps into my throat, every muscle in my body straining to listen. The footsteps draw closer, stopping just outside my door. I hold my breath, waiting for whoever it is to make a move.

The handle turns slowly, and the door creaks open, the sound like pinpricks on my skin.

It's not the groundsman or Carver – the room is filled with the scent of petrichor, that fresh smell you get after a heavy rain.

This is someone else, something else entirely.

A stranger, obscured by the darkness, lurking in the shadows.

Barely a heartbeat later, the door closes, leaving me wondering if I imagined the whole thing as sleep drags me under.

It's been two days, and I finally feel clear headed. I haven't felt this…aware since I recovered from that fever out on the moors, only for Carver to put me straight back on my medication.

When I woke up yesterday, my pills were on my dressing table, alongside a plate of sandwiches and a fresh jar of wildflowers. I'd dropped the pills into the jar without hesitation, watching as they turned the water murky.

Today, I want to explore. If Carver is gone and the groundsman is only here to check on me sporadically, getting out of this room and stretching my legs a little sounds wonderful.

Stealing snatched opportunities like this feels wrong. It's not like I'm a prisoner. This is my home now.

Carver is away, and the groundskeeper hasn't locked me in – I already checked. Maybe it's an oversight on their part, but until it's corrected, I'm going to make the most of it. I'm going to explore more than just the solarium.

Climbing out of bed, I cross to the dresser but all that's inside is more flimsy damsel nightdresses. I don't even remember when I started wearing them, they're not something I would choose for myself. Checking each of the drawers I find more of the same, muslin fabrics, soft lace, dainty ribbons. They're giving very virginal-princess-trapped-in-a-tower vibes.

Huffing, I slam the last one shut with a little too much force and stride over to the antique carved armoire. Dresses hang within, similar to the nightgowns…all very feminine and old fashioned.

At least they're not as revealing as the nightwear, I think as I slide the closest dress off the hanger and hold it up against me, grimacing. It's a smock dress, the duck egg blue fabric is shirred across the bust and stops just before my wrist with a puffed sleeve.

Where are my clothes? My jeans? My baggy T-shirts? My trainers? That's when it hits me that all of my clothes from before the accident are gone. Including my underwear.

I need a shower, not just to wash away the grime of the last few days, but also the thought of Carver taking care of me.

When I enter the bathroom, I ignore the shower instead moving towards the large roll top bath that's calling my name. I used to love having long, hot baths before we came here, back when we lived in London.

Knowing that Carver is away makes me feel…not relaxed…but comfortable enough to know I can bathe in peace without his intense ministrations. I don't linger on the thoughts of what taking care of me has entailed, how much he's seen…or done. I'm not ready to face those facts yet as I ignore my neatly trimmed nails, shaved legs and glossy if slightly greasy hair.

Discarding the dress on the counter, I flip the lock on the bathroom door, and slide the plug into the tub before turning on the taps. While the bath is filling I brush my teeth, spitting in the sink and screaming when I look up and catch sight of eyes in the mirror.

Heart in my throat, I spin, clutching my racing chest. It takes a moment for the fear cloud to disperse enough for my brain to work out what I'm seeing.

Outside the bathroom window, a demonic gargoyle sits on a pedestal opposite, its face imprisoned in a taunting, snarling grin. Stepping closer to the window, I realise the gargoyle isn't just an ordinary stone statue; there's something about the deep carved lines on its face, the eyes seeming to gleam. Intricate carvings run along its wings, each one sharp and detailed. Its horns are long and smooth, its wide grin displaying lethal-looking fangs.

Fear grips me, sending a shiver down my spine, but curiosity propels me closer to the window, my breath fogging up the glass.

The gargoyle's grin seems to widen, and I swear I see a flash of movement behind it. A shadow flitting just out of sight leaving a sense of foreboding behind. Goosebumps rise on my skin. I should run, call for help, but something pins me in place.

The groundsman's voice downstairs breaks the spell. Trembling, I step back away from the window, my mind racing a hundred miles and hour. What is going on? Has my paranoia reached new heights?

I quickly finish drawing the bath and sink into the warm water, trying to calm my shaky breathing.

I'm going insane. Gargoyles are just stone statues, decorations for creepy old manor houses. They don't move. Don't grin. Don't come to life. The medicine is clearly making me crazy.

Only…I didn't take the medicine…did I?