Home Sweet Home

Claire gaped at the haunting apparition of a home in front of her, convinced she’d starred in the world’s biggest hoax—and life was its director.

Her eyes slowly fell to the glossy brochure in her hand, boasting of a cozy, picturesque cottage. A pretty red-metal roof and matching front door with a white stucco exterior surrounded by a classic white picket fence. Functioning shutters framed each window with flower boxes underneath.

She dropped it to look at the real thing again.

The fence resembled more of a wooden graveyard of broken teeth posts, and the outside plastered walls were the embodiment of melancholy. Gray, not white, with cracks and whole chunks missing. The pretty red roof and front door were faded from glory to sickly pink, and the half-hung shutters creaked and moaned as the wind threatened to rip them from their hinges.

There were no flower boxes.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked the cab driver.

“Yup.”

If she were of the right mindset, a place like this might inspire an idea for a new creepy novel. That is what her agent begged her for anyway. She waited for the spark. The niggling in the back of her mind when her muse showed up. But as the wind whipped salty ocean air around her, there was nothing. Not in over a year had there been anything.

At least not for the book she was contracted to write.

She glanced down at the pristine picture again with a sigh. When Danny left her on the plane, she had no intention of taking him up on his offer of a visit. She’d come to Solsken, not for a retreat in the sense of relaxing, but the kind of retreat where you turn and run away from something you can’t fix.

Problem was, she thought she’d have a cozy cottage to retreat to.

“What do you want to do?” the cab driver asked.

Do? She wanted to scream at the irony. She’d finally taken the leap and broken away to a place far enough from her life. A place where she could breathe and quiet the plaguing echoes of her past. Maybe even conjure the means to reinvent herself.

And this is what she got.

You’re so incapable, Madelynn. She stiffened at the sudden memory. I swear, if I ever die, you’d better die with me because you couldn’t survive a day on your own.

Her husband, Brandon, had said it as a joke, but how could she argue the truth of it? On her first attempt at doing something on her own, she’d failed. Three months of non-refundable rent should’ve been a clue that something was wrong with the rental. Instead, she’d gotten it on the whim of feelings a pretty picture invoked.

But no one knew the anxiety that coursed through her at Brandon’s recent memorial service as she stood outside the new mental health facility named in his honor. Surrounded by empty offers of sympathy, the shallow regrets for her loss suffocated her. Listening to her father’s speech praising Brandon’s amazing accomplishments, she’d been so small. So utterly empty as he went on and on about the son of his dreams. The great loss of so much potential. The one who never disappointed him ... unlike her.

Claire sighed, rubbing the chill out of her arms. “I’d hoped for a bit more.” She smiled unevenly at the cab driver.

“I bet.”

“It’s kind of cute though, isn’t it?” He scrunched his nose and she laughed. “If only I’d learned to wield a hammer instead of a pen.”

He lost interest in the conversation and pulled out his phone.

She lowered her head and squeezed her fingers together. Frustrated that the certainty that drove her from West Coast to East Coast, that pushed her to become more than someone’s disappointment or widow, had abandoned her the moment she faced a problem.

“Well?” the cab driver said, without lifting his head from the phone.

She squinted at the cottage. Maybe she could find what she needed elsewhere and endure being surrounded by people for a little while ... “Isn’t there a Solsken Inn? Perhaps—”

“Fully booked,” he blurted, then shifted on his feet. Keeping his eyes glued to the phone, he added, “I, uh, just checked. So it’s here or nothin’.”

“Oh.” Cold air blew across her cheeks, drawing her attention back to the cottage. She weighed her options—one option surprisingly heavier than the other. After a lifetime spent dreaming and yearning, she couldn’t bring herself to let go of this chance so easily.

Perhaps this place wasn’t as bad on the inside?

Drawing closer to the cottage, she tilted her head. There were details there. A carved wooden trim of faded flowers and curling vines. Hearts and folkish symbols chiseled into the broken shutters. Clearly, at one point, this place had been loved, and these small details oddly drew her to the neglected home. She wondered about its history. What stories lived inside this humble shack?

Humble shack. She suddenly remembered the disgruntled little man who snapped at Danny on the plane. What word did he use to describe people in economy class?

“Peasants.” She smiled, and then it came. The familiar tingle in her fingertips from her muse waking up had her ripping out her journal. “Mister Peasant of Peasantry.” She named him and scribbled his brief description—stopped, thought of how his balding head barely came to Danny’s broad chest, yet he didn’t back down—and smiled wider while continuing to write. “Disgruntled factory worker rallies against the gods, demanding better working conditions.” She laughed. “Peasant indeed. Welcome to my character club, Mister Peasant.”

“Ma’am?” the driver said.

She held up a finger and sketched a brief drawing of a gnome-like creature, balding under a pointed hat. “Now, Mister Peasant, what story shall I place you in? Perhaps in one of Maddy’s fairytales.”

A throat cleared and she froze. She did all those awkward things—said all those weird words out loud—in front of the cab driver.

This moment was why she reserved her first name for the public and her middle name, her favorite name, for herself. When someone said Madelynn, she became Madelynn. The only name her mother used, and usually only to correct her, made it easy to associate it with proper behavior.

For the life of her, she couldn’t explain why she’d spontaneously told Danny to call her Claire instead.

She straightened herself into flawless posture and focused on the years of etiquette training forced on her as an “unruly” child before facing the driver in perfect Madelynn form. “I’d like to look around more before deciding, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded and leaned against the car, his fingers tapping in rapid beats on his phone.

She stepped toward a rewarding view and scanned her surroundings. The cottage was nestled in an isolated area off a long, grassy lane that led to the edge of the island. Steep white pines and hemlocks mingled with grand maples and oaks, clinging to the last remnants of colorful leaves. As she approached, they waved their spindly fingers at her. Beckoning.

Stepping further toward the cliff’s edge, she held her breath. More evergreens dotted rock-cliffs that broke off into crumbles of stone, rolling like marbles into the gray sea. The scent of spruce and balsam rose on a breeze and picked up loose strands of her hair, carrying them away.

At least the brochure hadn’t lied about the view. On a clear day, perhaps she’d even be able to see the shoreline of their North American neighbor. A hawk flew up and soared in front of her, gliding in place on the wind. She smiled and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. This. This was what she needed. The serenity she’d hoped to find.

The wind continued to whistle, and she remained still, soaking up the smells and sounds. She was so engrossed in the sensory experience, she almost missed the sound.

“Madelyy-ynn ... ” the wind whispered.

Her phone buzzed and she jumped, rolling her eyes at her overworking imagination. Of course the wind didn’t say her name. She lifted her phone and held up a finger to the driver, asking him to continue waiting.

A notification reminded her to contact Greyson. She smiled at the profile picture of him still in diapers as she, an eighteen-year-old mother, held him. The time in his life when he still thought she held the world in the palm of her hands.

JUST LETTING YOU KNOW I ARRIVED SAFE AND SOUND,she texted.YOU SHOULD SEE THIS PLACE. THE VIEW IS BEAUTIFUL. She flexed and released her hand, debating if she should say the other thing on her mind, and took a deep breath. WOULD LOVE TO HAVE YOU COME VISIT AND SEE IT WITH ME. She bit her bottom lip and hit send, hoping against hope for an answer. Three dots appeared and she smiled.

PRETTY BUSY THIS SEMESTER.

Her smile dropped. That’s all he had to say? “Don’t pressure him, Claire,” she whispered.

OF COURSE, she replied.STUDY HARD. I LOVE YOU.

He didn’t answer, and disappointment curled its familiar fingers around her throat and squeezed. She closed her eyes and inhaled. He’d answered her. That was something, at least. Rolling her shoulders back, she stared with determined eyes at what should’ve been the cottage of her dreams.

“Well?” the driver asked.

“I’m staying.”

His relieved smile didn’t match his nonchalant words. “Suit yourself, but here.” He held out a business card between two fingers and winked. “If you need anything, call me.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She smiled and paid him, studying the card as he left. The name Kenneth Greene lined the top with his phone number and a motel address underneath. She flipped the card, looking for the name of a taxi company, but it was blank. A second job maybe? She shrugged and tucked it away.

Determination restored and her carry-on strapped over her shoulder, she took both suitcases, one in each hand, ready to see what could be done to fix this place. She stopped—lurched forward—stopped again and groaned.

“Maybe you should’ve had Kenneth carry your bags into the house, Claire,” she said, unaware that she’d stepped back into her lonely childhood habit of talking to herself. The habit she’d hid when Brandon had made her awkwardly aware of it.

She strained some more before giving up and letting go of everything but the one case with her most precious possession of journals inside.

When she’d told Danny she didn’t like computers, what she meant was she despised them. Paper begot stories, and anything else drew a blank. Her transcriptionist was well paid to take her scribbles and make them digital for her.

She clunk-dragged her case up the single step to the porch, which creaked and bowed under the baggage weight. She waited to see if it would give way and silently cheered when it held. “See that, Brandon? Not completely incapable.”

Guilt stripped the humor as quick as it came. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and hefted the case, unlocking the door with a sigh.

Everything was going to be just fine.

She shrieked and the case slipped from her hands, falling with a bang.

The food and supplies she’d had delivered from the mainland lay scattered all over the floor in shredded bits and broken chunks. Scratched and ripped furniture cushions were strewn about with their puffy white guts mauled into snowy piles.

“What in the—”

A door slammed down the hall and she cupped a hand over a scream.

Moaning creaks from wind or something else shook the door. “Who’s there?”

What if it was the animal that murdered her cushions?

Finding a broken leg piece from a busted chair, she clung to her fading determination and forced herself to creep toward the room. Her head tilted, listening. There were no footsteps or sounds of movement from inside.

“Hey.” She gave the door two solid thumps and jumped back just in case.

No response.

There had to be a perfectly logical explanation inside there. Still, her entire body trembled as she slowly reached toward the door. “I mean you no harm.” She figured it didn’t hurt to keep talking if there was an animal.

When her fingers touched the knob, the rattling stopped. “H-Hello?” Nothing came. Sighing, she mustered up a speck of bravery and pushed the door open.

In front of her, a flannel comforter lay torn across a double mattress with sheets tangled and covering a broken end table. A shattered lamp littered the carpet. She groaned and braced against the door frame. Not even a bed to sleep in?

The wind whipped inside the room, hissing and fluttering the torn blanket, and that’s when she noticed the wide-open window. She marched over and took hold of the bottom window rail.

“Ma-adelynn ... ”

She yelled out, slamming the window shut and locked it. Or tried. The lock wouldn’t fully engage. Her fingers vibrated as she tested the seal of the window and it blessedly stayed shut.

Stumbling back against the wall, she pressed a hand into her chest. “You need sleep, Claire. That’s all. The wind didn’t say your name.”

Her stomach gurgled and growled. Maybe she was just hungry.

She hadn’t eaten on the plane like she’d planned because she’d given Danny her shoulder. He’d fallen asleep so fast and so hard she couldn’t keep watching his head bob with his eyebrows troubled and drawn. It was an exhaustion of mind and body she understood, so she positioned herself to catch him the next time he went down.

What she didn’t expect was how different the man who slept on her was from the man she’d met at the bar. The hard, bitter lines etched into his face gave way to vulnerable softness as he nestled into her side like she was his favorite pillow.

She didn’t have the heart to push him away. Even mid-flight, when he’d shifted and sank further into her. The tip of his nose brushed the side of her neck. It was so delicate. So unintentionally intimate, she didn’t dare move for fear of waking and embarrassing him. He’d softly groaned, “why,” in his sleep, and she’d squeezed her eyes closed. She may not know his life, but she knew what heartache sounded like.

Then he’d hummed. His fingertips had reached out, stroked up and down her arm. She’d gone still, heart thundering until he adjusted with an incoherent mumble and dropped his hand.

The entire time he’d talked to her after he woke, she couldn’t stop replaying that moment and had to continuously break eye contact.

Claire shivered out of the memory. “Food. You’re just hungry and need food.”

Making her way to the ugly pink front door, she opened it to retrieve her snack-filled carry-on.

She froze. A large, hairy creature snarled ten feet away from her, gnawing on her snack bag. It had taken her so many hours at the airport to find the cab driver and get here that the sun had already dipped below the western horizon, making the animal difficult to identify. Was it a small bear? Or wolverine, maybe. Did wolverines live here?

The animal suddenly charged, and she screamed, stumbling inside. She slammed the door.

“I’ll just drink tea.” Her shaking hand rubbed over her chest. “Tea makes everything better.”

When she entered the “L” shaped kitchenette, she stopped, hand still clasped over her chest. A golden tin lay crushed with beautiful, dried tea leaves littering the floor.

Full-on desperation took hold, and she ran to the bits, yelling, “It’ll be okay. You’re okay.” She wasn’t sure if she was assuring the tea or herself.

A horrible thought sprang to mind, and she paused. What if the creature was rabid?Could she drink tea after a rabid animal touched it? Her mind conjured a scenario where she not only died alone, but foaming at the mouth.

Defeat slumped her back against the front door. The ferocious sound of her precious food supply being mauled continued.

Needy, needy child. She stiffened when her mother’s words cut through her spiraling thoughts. She’d been five the first time she heard them, bursting in on her mother’s weekly luncheon after her pet snail died. She hadn’t known snails were disgusting and not suitable pets for young ladies, and her unsightly emotional display was quickly shut away in her room.

She curled her arms around her knees, much like she’d done then, trying to comfort herself.

It felt like hours before the growling stopped, and she let another thirty minutes go by before deciding to look.

Slowly creaking the door open, she peeked out—checked and double checked—then darted to her other case. Gripping the handle in both hands, she looked left and right, praying the creature didn’t return for her as its next meal.

She quickened her pace, scraping her last case into the house. Desperate for any kind of sanity, she unzipped the case and dug to the bottom, removing a felted blanket. She wrapped it around her shivering body, plugged the cord into the wall and switched the knob attached to it on high.

Her electric blanket wasn’t enough, nor were the hot tears that soaked her cheeks. She couldn’t stop shivering. Brandon was right.

“You can’t do this,” she said. Her teeth chattered.

Taking out Kenneth’s card, she held it tight against her palm. In the morning, she would admit defeat and call him. Until then, she would remain on the hard floor, hugging her body.

Fitful dreams soon swallowed her, and visions of hairy monsters and creepy winds gave way to a fractured memory ... His weight pressed against her ... The stench of his breath ... Cold metal against her skin ... Warm flesh scraping under her nails ...

“Madelynn.”

She screamed and shot awake, blinking in the darkness. The electric blanket laid warm against her damp cheek, her eyes darting around the dark cottage. His voice had been so close this time. She was sure of it. Whimpering, she fumbled for her phone. Did it vibrate three times, and she missed it? She opened the J.M. Security notifications.

POI secured. Their cryptic message told her exactly what she needed.

“He’s not here.” She hugged the phone to her chest, rocking. “Just a dream.” She rubbed the scar on her wrist and tugged the blanket tighter. But she couldn’t self-soothe this time. The shaking wouldn’t stop.

If you’re ever in need of a friendly face, drop by and see me.

“I need a friendly face, Daniel.” She smeared the back of her hand over her damp face and ran to the hall mirror. Fixing her hair and hat, she snatched her purse and a journal to make her excuse legitimate.

Snagging the broken furniture leg in case there were more wild beasts, she ran down the dry, grassy lane. The roar of the wind filled her ears, playing tricks with her overactive imagination. She paused, heaving deep breaths, listening. She shook out the crazy from her head. That couldn’t have been echoing laughter she heard. Still, she ran harder.

Nearing the end of the lane, she collided with an elderly man with a leashed dog, and she dropped the furniture leg. “Excuse me,” she panted hard, “do you know where I can find a Daniel Larsson?”

“Larsson, did you say? Yeah, I know him.” He pointed to a dark, Viking-shaped building. “Right in there. You’re in luck, too, he’s just come home.”

Thanking him, she left, unable to focus on what his whisper of “Mother” meant.

All she knew was this had to stop. She couldn’t keep letting desperation suck her into maddening chaos. There had to be a way to ground herself. To find her calm.

If only it could happen as easily as it had on the plane when she’d looked into a pair of blue-green eyes.