Chapter 3

Hazel

I'd gotten the keys from a nice older woman in town. She met me at a coffee shop. She said she'd have brought me here herself, but she can't climb the millions of stairs up the steep walk from the car to the house. And now, as I drag my luggage up, stair after stair, I get it. Stopping mid-journey, I look up.

The home looks a lot darker and more looming in person. I let myself panic for only a brief moment. Cam told me I was insane. I can't let her be right.

My phone rings, and I roll my eyes. I know it's her and it spurs me forward. After getting onto the rickety porch, I catch my breath. The cold air burns in my lungs as I realize how out of shape I am. The key goes in, breaking the ringing silence of the morning as I turn it.

Before turning the knob, I close my eyes and take a moment to steel my nerves. Even though I'd been assured the home has been empty for a long time, it feels as if eyes are on me. My imagination is out to play today.

Good. Maybe I'll actually get words down.

I move inside and close the door. Taking in a breath, I let my eyes travel the expanse of the house. It's a stark contrast to the battered outside. Weather had taken its toll out there. It's warm and inviting. Tones of the red and deep mahogany play off one another from the furniture to the original wooden floors.

I breathe out in relief and can see my breath. There's no way I can work in these conditions. So I focus on starting a fire with all that was laid out in the front sitting room and then move to the dining room and do the same.

Once back in the sitting room, I stand before the fire, warming my hands the best I can. There are pictures on the mantle of families, varying from the early eighteenth century to what looks like the nineties. It makes me wonder what happened to them. There's a dark resemblance to all the people in them. The same jaw in the men, chiseled and delectable.

What is the matter with you? Half of them are dead.

I shrug at my inward chiding. The curse of the single romance author: constant state of wanting. At least it makes for good books.

After walking around looking the place over and getting my bags into the bottom bedroom near the most heat, I decide to go into town to stock the fridge. Honeoye isn't a big town, but I'd seen a dollar general down Route 20. I'm a simple girl who is perfectly happy with a good cup of noodles each night, so I know they'll have all I need. Something simple and easy as I'm writing is perfect, so snacks are a must.

Getting into the car and navigating the renewed snowfall, I drive back toward the Dollar General. Looking into the rearview mirror, I find nothing. Even though the hackles on the back of my neck are raised.

I shiver and turn the heat up.

This would be the perfect time to write something dark and gothic.

But Cam would literally murder me. I smirk, turning the radio on.

"Bad weather is on the horizon." I roll my eyes. It's December in Western New York. Bad weather is a given. "Yeah, Bret, this is supposed to be the worst winter we've seen in twenty years."

I swallow.

Changing my mind instantly, I turn around and head toward West WiseGrocery for real groceries. If I'm going to be snowed into a creepy old house, I need more than noodles. In case the power goes out.

What have you gotten yourself into?

* * *

Dropping allthe bags onto the counter, I heave in a breath. I'd tried my damnedest to get all the bags inside in one trip. But it hadn't gone as planned. Some bags had fallen only a few steps up, and I hadn't had the strength to bend down and get them.

Defeated, I turn and head back outside, trudging down the stairs. Winter nips at my nose with each thrust of wind across my skin.

I grab the two bags of produce that had fallen, thanking all that's holy because they hadn't broken on impact. Surely, some of the produce is bruised, but I probably will let it go to waste in the fridge anyhow. I swear I only buy produce to make myself feel better about all the garbage I buy to eat. When I turn back toward the house before standing back up with my bags, something catches my eye in the top left window.

The light is on.

Karen, in town, had been adamant the house was empty. Owned by the Historical Society of Honeoye, it's only rented out for events and used as an Air BnB occasionally. She did mention she almost never gets visitors to the home this time of year. With the snow blowing through my hair, I know why.

Thinking about going upstairs to find the room and shutting the light off gives me palpitations. But leaving the light on the entire time I'm here seems a little rude to do. Plus, I don't want to prove Cam right. She'd said I would freak myself out in this big ass house.

Standing straight and tall, I begin the march back up the stairs. I'm determined to go turn that light off if it's the last thing I do.

Maybe I'll call Cam as I do it. Then, I'm not alone.

The idea makes me feel more comfortable. I don't have to tell her what I'm doing, just that I made it here safely. Besides, I was supposed to call her when I got in, anyhow.

It's decided.

After getting all the groceries put away, and the bags put together for saving—a habit I got from my grandmother, God rest her soul—I open my phone and tap Cam's contact photo.

"Girl! I thought you were in a ditch somewhere! Are you just now getting there? I was worried!" she laments as soon as I hear the phone pick up.

I smirk. Yet, you only tried calling me once. "I'm fine. I wanted to get groceries stocked up before the weather turned."

"From what the weather stations are saying, you went there at the worst time."

She's not making this any easier.

I take a deep breath, trying my best to breathe out silently so Cam isn't alerted. Stepping onto the beautiful stairs with their red runners, I move up towards the top floor. There's three floors to the massive house. Something I hadn't even considered when I hit purchase.

Impulse control is something I struggle with. And now, I'm thinking I really should get a damn handle on it.

"Hello? Hazel?" Cam reminds me she's still on the line.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm here."

"Well, how is it going? Do you think you'll be able to write? Do you think you'll be able to survive?"

I chuckle at the last question, rolling my eyes.

But her disbelief in me steadies my steps as I reach the third floor. Doing things because others say I can't is something I excel at. It's the redhead in me.

"I think this is the perfect setting for the gothic novel I've always wanted to write."

Cam moans in annoyance. "We've talked about this."

"Yeah, well, I really wish you understood how creativity works, ya know? I can't just turn it on and off. And sometimes, my brain wants to write something dark and dangerous instead of sweet and cutesy."

Cam groans. "I know, but the publishers..."

"I'll self-publish it," I say, cutting her off.

I hear as she physically smacks herself in the forehead.

The third-floor is dark. Other than the illumination from the room at the end. A door is creaked open slightly. The same runner from the stairs is down the middle. The walls are wood, pictures of family gone before hanging on them. There's a small hall table to the left of the ajar door, with a lantern on it that looks like oil.

My grandparents had a few. I'm glad they did. Because I know just how to use them. I'm thankful to find it's actually battery operated. Probably put here in case of emergency because there was one downstairs in the kitchen, too.

"And how do I get my cut of self-published work, huh?" Cam asks, and I roll my eyes as I flick on the lantern.

"Oh, so that's all you're concerned about, eh? Your cut? Real nice, Cam."

She sighs. "No, of course not, Hazel. But I also don't want to not be a part of your journey. I want you to make it big, you know?"

Cam and I became instant friends when I met her for coffee. She was interviewing me to become my literary agent, and I was hoping to not blow it too hard. I needed her to be exactly what she is now; someone on my team.

"I'm going to write what they want me to, it's just..." I push the room's door open, praying hard that the light switch is just inside, and I don't have to move too far inward. Something about the space is dark and heavy. And having the empty hall to my back feels spooky as hell.

"How about this?" she proposes. "You write the book the publishers want and then tell them you're going on a publishing break. While you're on break, write your brilliant novel and I will shop it around to other houses."

"Is that allowed?" I ask, still searching for a way to shut the light off. It's on modern ceiling fan, likely added as a comfort for guests in the summer. Not many homes in this part of the country have central cooling.

"We will work it out when we get there. I don't like to see you struggling. And I don't want to dull your creative shine. After all, it's what drew me to you."

I smirk as I recall regaling her with the ten works in progress I'd had on my laptop the day we'd met, telling her anyone of them could be ready if she'd only take me on as a client. We talked all day long, and left the shop as best friends. We haven't skipped a day of talking. Even when I'm writing, I find time to answer her harebrained messages that range from her dogs being wild, to she doesn't want to work today.

Finding no switch, I move into the room to get nearer to the swinging pull strings. I jump, trying to catch one, and miss. Landing in a thump, I wince because I know she's heard it.

"Hazel, what are you doing?"

I sigh. "Trying to turn a light off in the spooky upstairs room, okay?"

A resounding laugh comes from her chest. "Did you call me because you were afraid to go upstairs alone? You did, didn't you? You little sneak!"

I laugh, shaking my head and waiting for her to be done laughing at me. Lightness falls over me at our banter. Suddenly, the light shuts off on its own, and I stiffen.

Blood pounds in my ears, and my breathing picks up.

"Hazel?" Cam asks, somehow sensing the change.

"Someone's in the house," I whisper.

"Run," Cam tells me. "Get outside. I'll call the cops."

The line goes silent, and I whimper.

The scent of masculine cologne wafts up my nose before I scream bloody murder and bolt out the door. Dropping the lantern in the hall, I clutch my phone tightly, using the other hand to hold the banister so I don't tumble down the steps of doom.

No footsteps can be heard behind me. Not over all the racket I'm making and the screams pulling from my chest. I slide across the rug in front of the door, wrinkling it and delaying my exit. I kick it out of the way, turning the handle hastily and rushing onto the porch. Slamming it behind me, I shudder as my body recognizes how cold it is outside without my jacket.

My phone rings and I pick it up instantly. "Cam?"

"Cops are on their way. Get away from the house."

"It's cold, Cam. I left my jacket and keys inside."

"Hazel Elizabeth, don't you dare go back into that fucking house."

I eye the door, shivering as the wind hits me.

"Alright, but if they arrive, and I'm a popsicle, be it on your head."

She laughs, but it's tight and full of nerves. "Only you could threaten me like you're living in the eighteenth century yourself."

I smile as sirens sound through the cool night air. I'm thankful that even though the town is small, that the police are responsive.

When two officers rush up the stairs, I tell Cam I have to go.

My life has become a novel.